Simple Conversation
by Jee oto ta Huttuk koga
Summary: Takes place right after "The Third Directive," but works if read independently. Bucky is recovering at Stark Tower and finds someone he can talk to. Contains the usual awful flashbacks, but trying to grow some peace for Bucky here. (No slash, no pairings) (COMPLETE)
1. Chapter 1

It was his first night in Stark Tower. Steve had showed him to his assigned quarters, and had assured Bucky that if he needed anything, that he would just be in the next room. He'd told Steve that he would be fine alone tonight, because he thought it was true. He'd had no reason to believe that he wouldn't be. He'd slept well at Ron's, although he had been too compromised by exhaustion at the time to do much else. And he hadn't realized until now that Ron had left the lights on. But now he was huddled into a shivering ball on the bed, clutching the edge of the mattress and silently enduring those slow seconds until _fine._

A disembodied voice spoke pleasantly, startling him. "Is the temperature comfortable, Mr. Barnes? I can raise it a few degrees."

He remembered Steve talking out loud to a machine he called J.A.R.V.I.S. that sounded uncomfortably like a computer-assisted targeting system. "Not cold," he answered, shuddering.

"You appear to be in distress. Should I alert Captain Rogers?"

"Negative!" he said frantically, shaking his head. It was pointless to worry Steve about something as inconsequential as fear. But he_ was_ terrified, and didn't know how much longer he could go without crying out _Help me, Steve_. "Dark…"

"I will increase the ambient illumination to 25 percent."

Suddenly everything was washed with dim light and he could see. His body relaxed all at once, and he took his first full breath in hours. "Better," he said, almost dizzy with relief.

"There is no reason to stay in the dark if it makes you apprehensive, Mr. Barnes."

"Scared when eyes covered…my eyes covered. Blind…" the word was in his mind, right there, but his tongue could not find the right place in his mouth to say it.

"Blindfolded?"

"Yes. Had done wrong, do not remember what." He was a little surprised that he had less difficulty articulating while talking to the computer. But then conversation with JARVIS was not packed with layers and layers of hidden meanings and unspoken expectations and confusing facial expressions that warned of punishment. He did not have the feeling that he was being subtly cautioned against doing or saying something wrong, or most painful of all, disappointing Steve.

"I assure you nothing like that will happen while you are in the Tower, Mr. Barnes." JARVIS replied.

"Mr. Barnes?" he ventured, tensing involuntarily against a slap or a punch.

"It is your surname, which is the default address." JARVIS replied. "Do you prefer another designation?"

He'd never needed a name before. He remembered that Steve had told him that his was "James Buchanan Barnes," but he had not been referred to by any variation of the name since. "Mr. Barnes" didn't seem right either, but he didn't know what was. "Steve says "Bucky."

"I will refer to you in the future as Bucky, if you like."

Like? Not like? Did it matter? "Acceptable."

"Is there anything I can do for you now, Bucky?"

Bucky hesitated, then asked timidly, "Keep light on?"

"Of course. Are you having difficulty sleeping?"

The terrors were still too close to verbalize. He could only make himself nod.

"When Captain Rogers has that problem, he often requests music."

"Steve…what does Steve ask for?"

"Captain Rogers shows an understandable preference for songs of the 1940's era. There are also more modern favorites that seem to have the desired effect."

He'd heard music occasionally, but had not paid much attention to it, since it held no information relevant to whatever mission he was serving. But he had no current orders to sleep, and it would be a long time before he would absolutely have to. And he was curious about what Steve would choose for himself. "Play..?" He sighed, becoming frustrated with his inability to ask a simple question without a struggle. "Will you play one?"

"My pleasure. Queuing Bobby McFerrin."

It didn't sound like music he'd heard before, just like someone humming pleasant rhythmic sounds, whistling, and making other noises.

_Here's a little song I wrote  
You might want to sing it note for note  
Don't worry, be happy_

_In every life we have some trouble  
When you worry you make it double  
Don't worry, be happy  
Don't worry, be happy now_

When the song was over, he asked, "Does Steve sleep to this?"

"He laughs first, and then he will often go to sleep. He says that the words remind him of other songs he remembers from the past."

"Play more?"

"Of course."

* * *

**A/N: I don't know if I like this or not. I have an idea for a larger story concerning Bucky and JARVIS, but this scene wouldn't leave me alone.**

**Being restrained and blindfolded is a memory from a specific incident detailed in chapter 2 of "Waste of Concern."**


	2. Chapter 2

**_TACTICAL EVALUATION_**

93rd floor of Stark Tower, New York City. Elevated rooftop helipad platform, no vehicle present. Low wall. Eight-foot metal guard fence, taller defensive fence around perimeter. Recreational swimming pool, 165 feet long, 83 feet wide. Metal and plastic chairs, structural integrity insufficient for effective use as weapons. Adjacent structures possible cover. Four exit points to lower building.

Threat estimate: Four targets, four male, one female. Threat level maximum.

Neutralization plan: Evade immediate grapple from Steve. Elbow strike to face of second target, male, crush slightly overdeveloped right arm preventing deployment of projectiles…

_Stop it._

He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration, raising his right hand to his temple. Now that he was in custody, HYDRA's pre-conditioned surrender directive no longer drove him without mercy, but he had little control over the rest of it. His head pounded as he tried to cease or at least to slow down the automatic calculation of how to most efficiently destroy everyone in sight.

"Are you all right, Buck?" Steve asked.

**_CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Superficial injuries mostly healed. Major injuries require no further consideration. Mobility 90% of capacity. Defensive capability 95%. Prosthetic arm functional.

He nodded. He was not sufficiently compromised to make a full report, unless specifically required to do so.

"Come on over here, sit down."

Steve had gestured to one of the lounge chairs, and he obediently perched on the edge, his back rigid. Steve knelt beside him and looked at him earnestly. "Do you remember what Ron had told you when you stayed with him? The same is true here. You can rest or just be alone any time you need to, eat whenever you are hungry, and if you need help, just ask. If you can't speak, just make some noise. We'll find you a whistle or something to carry in case you need it. Ok?"

The reassurance made him feel a little better, but he wished his head would stop hurting. He knew it probably had a lot to do with being in an unfamiliar place, with people he had no orders about how to handle. Steve patted his shoulder. "Do you feel like meeting anyone? They are curious about you."

Was that an order? It didn't sound like one, but if he guessed wrong… He nodded slowly, but he couldn't help biting his lip and nervously tapping his right fist against the arm of the chair. It was the signal he used to tell Steve that he was having difficulty making his thoughts become words. When he realized what he was doing, he put his hand in his lap and held it with the metal one. Steve noticed, and frowned slightly. The expression made his stomach tighten. He hadn't meant to displease Steve, but he had, somehow.

He drew in a deep breath. _No one will hurt you again, Bucky. _He repeated the promise to himself, even though experience had almost always proved the opposite.

"Bucky, I'd like you to meet Bruce Banner."

"Hello, Bucky."

He didn't look up right away. Instead, he studied Bruce's shoes. They were plain brown, with rubber soles, and looked scuffed, though not dirty. The outer edges had been worn unevenly, and he thought that he might be able to easily off-balance Banner with a quick blow to the…

_Stop it._

He swallowed, and forced his gaze upward. The man looked as scruffy as his shoes, with a mop of wavy hair and a rumpled shirt. "I…" he attempted, but he could not seem to catch his breath enough to talk around the pressure in his chest. He'd already calculated four solutions for neutralizing the man, and two possibilities for fighting tactical withdrawals.

"Just relax," Banner said with a gentle smile. "It will take practice and time, that's all." He gave Steve a nod and made his way back to the shade of one of the covered pavilions.

"Easy there, Buck," Steve said soothingly, taking a firm but gentle grip on his upper arm. "You're shaking. Do you need to leave?"

HYDRA handlers would have made his ears ring for admitting weakness, but he did feel like he needed to get away. Steve carefully guided him into the elevator. "JARVIS?" he called.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" JARVIS responded with its crisp accent.

"Take us to my floor, please."

"With pleasure, Sir."

"Negative!" he said suddenly, startling Steve. "Not to room…" he gestured helplessly, reaching for words.

"You don't want to go back to your room?"

That was it exactly. To his immense relief, Steve did not frown at him or sigh, or look confused. Instead, he pointed to one of the buttons on the needlessly complex elevator panel. "You can just tell JARVIS where you want to go, but if you can't, this button will take you back to the roof. JARVIS won't open the doors into anyone's personal areas but ours, so you don't have to worry about that. Take your time and come back when you're ready."

When the doors closed, and he was out of everyone's sight, he sat down heavily in a corner of the elevator cab. He didn't have anywhere in mind to go, but he knew he didn't want to hide in his room. "JARVIS?" he said after a minute.

"Yes, Bucky?"

"Is all right to sit? Sit here?"

"If someone else wishes to use this elevator, I will warn you before I open the door."

He ran his hand through his hair, and felt his breathing begin to slow down. "Very difficult to see people."

"I can understand why you'd think that. They are quite an unusual group."

"Can not stop thinking of how to kill them." It was easier to admit the problem to an impersonal, artificial intelligence than to a person. Real people had always demanded that he remain quiet and perform as ordered, without complaint.

"I assure you, they are quite adept at dealing with actual attempts to kill them," JARVIS replied, a note of humor creeping into the smooth voice. "I doubt they will experience much discomfort over someone simply calculating possibilities to do so."

That actually did make the thought of going back onto the roof a little easier to bear.

JARVIS added, "I would like to point out that if you wish to return to the pool area, you are under no obligation to interact with anyone."

He thought about that for a moment. "Steve brought Bruce."

"Only after you had indicated consent. Captain Rogers will understand if you indicate that you are not ready to meet people. It is sufficient for you to simply be in proximity to others for now, if that is your preference."

It was too confusing. He didn't want to risk disobeying an order. In the field, on missions, sometimes he'd had to think independently and any mistakes had earned severe consequences. He'd obviously misinterpreted Steve's suggestion for an order, and realizing that made him feel a bit sick now. "I don't know what to do," he said softly.

"You can do whatever you want."

What did he want? He considered the question very carefully, paring away as much anxiety and reflexive fear of punishment as he possibly could. "I…want to sit outside."

"Then that is what you should do."

He rubbed his face tiredly and took a few breaths to steady himself. Then he pulled himself to his feet and pushed the "open" button on the elevator panel.


	3. Chapter 3

He had a headache and an upset stomach most of the time. Thinking back, he wasn't sure when it had started, but certainly before Ron had stumbled upon his hiding place in the alley a few days ago. Probably even prior to that, but he'd been too injured at the time to give it much attention. He knew both sensations from before, though. Things he'd been given to drink had sometimes made his head hurt and his stomach queasy. Other liquids pushed through intravenous lines had made him retch and heave. He didn't feel quite that bad now, but it was more worrying, in a way, because he had no idea what was causing it.

He found that it instantly became a lot worse when the elevator door opened and five pairs of eyes suddenly focused on him. He almost turned and fled back into the elevator. But he really did want to sit outside in the sun for a while, and JARVIS had assured him that Steve would understand.

_No one will hurt you again, Bucky. _

"Hey, Buck!" Steve's smile was so genuinely delighted that there was no way to misinterpret it, as he jogged to stand in front of him. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to rush you."

He couldn't smile back, not yet, but the apology did make him feel a lot better. "Okay," he said with a nod, hoping that it would be enough. One of the chairs was set somewhat away from the others, and he pointed at it. Steve showed him how to unlock the back of the chair and recline it to a comfortable angle. He settled back into it, somewhat uneasily at first, until he was sure it would support him.

"I'm getting hungry, and I don't think you've eaten since we got here, right?" Steve asked. "Anyway, I was going to get myself something, and Ron said you were handling solid food...well, he calls that meatloaf of his food. Do you want to eat?"

He didn't know. The discomfort in his stomach had lessened quite a bit, but he still didn't feel what he had learned was _hungry_. He probably did need to take something though, since it had been a night and part of a day since he had eaten last. And Steve had told him it would be all right for him to eat, whenever he wanted. It was so hard to make a decision about something as basic as whether or not to eat… "Will try."

Steve seemed satisfied with the answer. "I'll bring you something. Hey Tony, I'm getting food, do you want anything?"

"Nope," said a dark-haired man in burgundy swimming trunks who was strolling past them. He lifted a short glass and shook the ice cubes in Steve's direction. "I've got food right here, thanks." The man raised his glass briefly to Bucky, acknowledging him, but did not communicate otherwise.

**_TACTICAL EVALUATION_**

Threat estimate: Tony Stark. Threat level medium. Immediate neutralization required to avoid elevation to maximum.

Neutralization plan: Crush larynx to prevent verbal orders to household AI. Leg sweep to off-balance, throw prone. Smash beverage glass into maxillofacial area. Avoid incoming armor if initial plan unsuccessful.

_Stop it. Stop it. Stop it._

It helped a little when he shut his eyes. He heard Tony's bare feet pad around his chair, then another chair creaked some distance away, ahead and to his right, as the man plunked himself down in it and sprawled out. The ice rattled again, and he heard Tony place the glass on a table. Thankfully, Tony did not speak to him or try to get his attention at all. As he felt his body begin to relax, he realized that he had crossed his arms over his chest and drawn in his knees. He consciously straightened his legs and dropped his arms. He didn't open his eyes until he heard Steve's footsteps.

"This should be good," Steve said, looking happy. "Sandwiches, and a few other things. Water to drink," he said, shooting a stern glance at Tony. "But here, try this first."

He didn't know what the little red thing was. It was a few inches long, more or less heart-shaped, and covered in tiny seeds that felt almost fuzzy under his fingertips. A cap of green leaves ringed one end. He looked at it for a moment, then brought it to his nose. The scent was fruity, and brought a rush of memory that evaporated before it could coalesce into a picture. He wanted to ask if he'd eaten anything like it before. He thought maybe he had, but he just didn't know. He lifted the object in his palm to Steve in an unspoken question.

"It's a strawberry."

He looked at it again. Ron had given him a "strawberry" protein shake when he'd been recovering. That had been pink, and he supposed that this thing would be pink as well if blended with protein components. While there was some resemblance to the smell of the strawberry and the shake, it was superficial. This had so many seeds too, which he didn't remember drinking.

"You used to really like them," Steve said. "They may even have been your favorite, but you liked a lot of different fruit, when we had it." He picked another strawberry off of the sandwich plate. "Here, you eat it like this." He pinched the green leaves between his fingers and popped most of it into his mouth, bit it off just above the cap and retained the leafy part. Seeing Bucky's expression, he guffawed, almost lost his mouthful and had to chew and swallow it quickly. "You don't have to eat it if you don't want to. It's all right, I promise."

He gave it one more skeptical look. Then he positioned the strawberry in his fingers as Steve had demonstrated and brought it to his mouth and took a bite. The fresh juice was so tart it was almost shocking, immediately followed by gentle sweetness. Thrills traveled down both sides of his face as the taste spread. Slow chewing released more juice, and intensified the flavor. The seeds had very little taste, but their texture on his tongue was wonderful. Oh, this was better than meatloaf, much better.

"Breathe, Bucky," Steve reminded him.

He breathed, and swallowed a moment later. He didn't know he had closed his eyes until he opened them to see Steve watching him with a warm smile.

Tony had also been watching from his chair with a wry smile. "That right there, friends, is pure, unadulterated, 100 percent pleasure," he said. "I should know, I'm an expert. And jealous, I'm actually a little jealous."

* * *

**No JARVIS this time, but next time for sure. I won't be updating until after the weekend, most likely.**

**I mentioned Bucky's nervous stomach in Chapter 3 of "Waste of Concern." Boo, HYDRA.**


	4. Chapter 4

How could he have forgotten strawberries?

He had taken a handful of them back to his room on Steve's floor, and had lined them up carefully on the edge of the empty desk. Then he rested his chin on his folded forearms and studied them. He could smell them, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost still taste them. Steve had said they'd been one of his favorites. But he had no memory of them at all, other than what he had experienced a few hours ago.

The feeling of_ wanting_ things still struck him as wrong, somehow. There was no immediate need to be filled, like locating an ammunition cache, or finding a covered vantage point. But more than anything, he _wanted _to remember Steve's friend who had liked strawberries.

"JARVIS?" he said after a few minutes of debate.

"Yes, Bucky?"

"Want to remember James Buchanan Barnes."

"Would you like to see some archival material?"

"Affirmative." He turned toward the flat viewer on the desk. JARVIS had selected a set of clips that were tagged "Courtesy of the Smithsonian." The first times he watched them, he mentally tuned out the descriptive voice-over and concentrated on the images. Steve was laughing easily with a uniformed man, thumping him on the back. The man in the video clips had kind blue eyes, an expressive face, and a ready smile. He watched it over and over. "Is that James Buchanan Barnes?"

"Yes, it is."

"Steve says that is me," he said, frowning a little.

He watched it ten or fifteen more times, then began to pay attention to the audio. _They were inseparable, from the schoolyard to the battlefield._ He had fleeting sensory impressions of battlefields. Drifting smoke from burning machines. The _whump_ of distant artillery. The weight of a pistol in his grip. But trying to think about school brought nothing. The fight on the helicarrier was the only memory he had of himself and Steve together, so he concentrated on that. What had stopped him from killing Steve and completing his mission had been the strange multiple image of Captain America and a much smaller, thinner man. He'd jumped into the river and dragged Captain America to the bank because the two sets of eyes had been so absolutely clear where the images had met. He still didn't understand why that should be. They could not have been the same man.

He watched the video clip again, and asked JARVIS to freeze the playback on the image of "pre-serum" Steve Rogers. That small man had been Steve too! Then there was no doubt that he had remembered Steve on the helicarrier. But when he tried to remember anything else about him, he found very little, other than the impacts of his fists on Steve's face and the echo of his own voice crying for him in the dark.

"Are you all right, Bucky?" JARVIS inquired.

"Think so," he said, blinking. His eyes had gone dry from staring. "Show more?"

There were several paragraphs of text which contained basic biographical information. Barnes' birthday that meant nothing. The names of Barnes' parents, which also meant nothing. Lists of military postings. The date...his stomach suddenly twisted. The date that Barnes and 150 men of his unit had been captured. That date was highlighted in blue and underlined. "JARVIS, show this link," he said, pointing.

"I strongly recommend that you view material of this nature with Captain Rogers present," JARVIS replied.

He had no idea of what he would find behind that blue link, other than that the possibilities made his stomach hurt. His memories of what had happened because of stomachaches were hazy, but he knew that HYRDA had never permitted him to feel that way for long. It was wrong, like wanting things. Steve would give him that disappointed look when he tried to explain…if he could tell him why he wanted to see it at all. He felt himself losing his grasp on speech even thinking about trying. He lowered his head onto his arms.

He raised his head again when he heard JARVIS. "Bucky, no one will stop you from doing what you feel you need to do, or hurt you for it afterward."

"Want to…want to remember. Have to see."

"Then that is what you should do. Let me know when you are ready."

He sat up straight and faced the viewer. His right hand clenched into a fist, but he did not try to loosen it. "Ready."

He did not get the chance to read many of the words on the next page. The information was headed by a grainy photograph of a vast hangar full of crisscrossed metal beams and cables. Sheets of shining fabric rippled from impossibly long girders. And among the grinding machinery and the barked orders and the cuffs and slaps and ringing shots were tiny men, laboring like ants.

_He was coughing and sweating and shivering with fever. The other men tried to distract the watchers to let him rest, but they could not keep up the deception forever. When the guards eventually noticed, they dragged him away to wherever they had taken the others who couldn't work._

He felt bile rising in his throat, and gagged. _Don't you dare! _a harsh voice ordered from somewhere inside him, but it was already too late. He had just enough time to push away from the desk and target the trash can before he lost everything in his stomach. When it was over, he curled on his side on the floor, boneless and dizzy, his body automatically braced for punishment for failing to control himself. Instead of pain, however, there was a passing scent of something that seemed to clear his head and tame the nausea a little. When he felt steadier, he rolled over onto his back. "What is that?" he asked, his voice weak and gravelly.

"Mint, with citrus," JARVIS replied smoothly. "Mr. Stark occasionally requires assistance of this type. I had no assurance that it would be effective for you as well, but there seemed to be no harm in trying. Are you all right now?"

**_CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Functional. Acute nausea subsiding. Discomfort in head and stomach unremarkable, decreasing to pre-event levels.

"Remembered something, something bad."

"I cannot speak for how human memory works, but in my own case, stored information is often interconnected. Retrieving one file of required information will often retrieve associated subclasses of files, which can then be selected or rejected, depending on the context."

So in theory, the more he remembered, the more he might remember. The speculation was encouraging and frightening at the same time. "You control the process?"

"In general, I do not have to. But yes, I can make certain clusters of files more or less likely to be retrieved. In my experience, however, humans do not so function."

He sighed. JARVIS was probably right. "Want to remember. But scared."

"There is no need to try to remember everything at once."

He pulled himself slowly to his feet, then made his way over to the sink and rinsed his mouth and washed his face. JARVIS told him that it wasn't necessary to clean the trash can, but he didn't like the thought of someone else having to do it, so he did that too. Then he stood for a little while in the center of the room, struggling to decide what to do next. He had a strong urge to find Steve and try to tell him about what had just happened, or even to just sit quietly and watch whatever Steve was doing. Maybe he would try that later, after he'd calmed down some more and didn't have to risk throwing up on Steve. He didn't particularly want to sit in his room, but the only place in the tower he could clearly remember was the rooftop. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Bucky?"

"Is all right to go to roof?"

"Of course it is."


	5. Chapter 5

He spent the next half hour stretched out on the bed until his upset stomach settled. He drank some water as a test, and when it stayed down, he made his way to the elevator and asked JARVIS to take him to the roof.

The doors slid open into near-darkness, startling him badly at first. After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted, and he saw that it was really not that dark after all. He tentatively stepped onto the roof, cautiously scanning the area. Bruce Banner was already there, absorbed in peering through some sort of large targeting scope that was angled above the horizon into the night sky.

**_TACTICAL EVALUATION_**

Threat estimate: Threat level undetermined. Ram target with shoulder, quick lift with prosthetic arm, throw over edge of building…

_Stop it. _

Banner hadn't noticed him yet. He should have noiselessly slipped back into the elevator, but part of him wondered why someone would point a scope away from ground targets. Was Banner targeting aircraft? The mounting looked too cumbersome to track anything that moved as quickly as aircraft, and it seemed to be locked into position.

"Hi, Bucky," Bruce greeted him, ending his speculation and any chance of unnoticed escape. The man returned his attention to the viewing device. "I had some ideas for a new type of telescope filter, and Tony had this, an old toy of his or something. Thought I'd come up here and see if anything was worth seeing."

What could be worth seeing through a stationary scope on top of a skyscraper, other than surveillance targets? What could one view through such a device pointed…up? He wanted to ask, but wasn't sure whether it was allowed, or if he could even physically produce the question. He inhaled and tried to say something, even one word, but his thoughts could not press past whatever obstacle blocked the way. He ended up making a noise that sounded more like he'd cleared his throat than anything else.

Bruce glanced up from the eyepiece. "Would you like to look? I have it trained on Saturn right now. Conditions aren't great tonight, light pollution and all, but we can see some planets and a few of the brighter stars."

The mounting assembly looked uncomfortably familiar. The method of adjusting the attitude of a rifle to account for wind speed and direction leaped to mind, followed by the curved plot of a bullet's trajectory. He imagined JARVIS prompting him to consider what he wanted to do, and moved closer to the telescope. Bruce showed him how to position his eye correctly into the light shield, and stepped aside.

The image was yellowed and a little fuzzy, but he could plainly see a circular body with stripes of light and dark crossing its surface. A round ring girdled the planet like a belt. He raised his head and gave Bruce a questioning look, pointing at the eyepiece. Bruce quirked a half-smile. "That's Saturn. Do you know what it is?"

He shrugged and looked into the telescope again, listening intently while Bruce spoke. "That's one of the planets in our solar system, the sixth one. It's nine hundred million miles from here, give or take ten million or so. You could fit 764 Earths inside Saturn, that's how large it is." Bruce explained that the rings were made mostly of water ice, like the kind found on Earth.

He could determine direction and navigate at night if he had to, but he didn't think he'd ever just looked at the sky. The word "pretty" was in his mind, but it didn't seem to be quite enough to cover it, especially with the new information Bruce had given him. None of the descriptive words he considered were right. Finally he stood straight, looked at Bruce's shoes and tried to concentrate. Some strange hissing noises came out of his mouth at first. Then, although it was thick and difficult and scary, he said, "Saturn."

Bruce's eyes grew wide, and he gave a broad smile. "Hey, you said "Saturn!" That's great, Bucky! Wow, ten minutes looking into a telescope, and you are already talking astronomy with me."

Speaking hadn't earned him a punch in the mouth, or worse, and the barrier slipped, just a little. He couldn't smile, not yet, but for a brief instant he felt a kindle of warmth, like he could have.

Bruce asked him if he'd like to see anything else through the telescope, but he declined with a shake of his head. He wasn't ready for conversation, even a simple one, but he didn't really want to be alone. He moved one of the reclining lounge chairs closer to Bruce's stargazing and sat down, head back, eyes closed, listening to Bruce as he pattered aloud about what he was viewing.

He didn't sleep, not even after Bruce disassembled the telescope and retired for the night. But as the sky turned pink and gold in the east, he decided that he felt _good_ anyway.

* * *

**I wanted to do something nice for Bucky, because recovery is hard, and it's going to be a lot harder shortly. He's been thoroughly conditioned to "sit down and shut up," and now that's starting to slip.**


	6. Chapter 6

**_CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

Functional. Acute nausea subsiding. Discomfort in head and stomach unremarkable, decreasing to pre-event levels.

Vomiting had become a familiar process during the last few days.

It hadn't been because JARVIS had failed to warn him. Each time he'd asked to be shown the content behind one of those blue links that made his stomach start to ache, the computer had dutifully advised him that Captain Rogers should be present. It hadn't even happened every time. The text and pictures on the pages had meant mostly nothing to him. Once in a while, however, as it had just a moment ago, a picture, or a sound file, or the phrasing of a random sentence would elicit a ragged shred of memory. Each had been invariably horrific. He'd started keeping plastic grocery bags nearby during the online explorations, because they were easier to clean up afterward. Luckily, no one had asked why he was collecting them. And whether it was due to luck or because of excellent programming, JARVIS had never said, "I told you so." Instead, the AI had offered calming music and the scent of mint and citrus that seemed to work for Tony.

"JARVIS?" he called weakly from the floor.

"Yes, Bucky?"

"This isn't working."

"On the contrary. If the desired result is to keep your system food-free, I would judge your method to be extraordinarily effective," JARVIS answered.

He pressed the heel of his right hand against his forehead. "Where is Steve?" Lately, all he wanted afterward was to be a silent shadow somewhere near Steve.

"Captain Rogers is currently in the public area. He is alone," JARVIS added, anticipating the next question. "He is watching a baseball game."

Tony had once referred to Steve's baseball-watching behavior as that of an "insufferable asshat," and the rest hadn't disagreed. He didn't know what that meant, but he didn't care. He cleaned himself up and tied off and disposed of the plastic bag. Then he asked JARVIS to take him downstairs.

He heard Steve yelling the moment he stepped from the elevator. "Oh, come _on! _Run like you mean it! No…not like…Aw, boo!" Steve was on his feet, waving his hands and throwing his hat at the television screen on the wall. Then he dropped onto the couch and crossed his arms, scowling furiously.

He hadn't seen Steve like that before, and was hesitant to approach. He knocked on the doorjamb, prepared to fall to his knees in case disturbing Steve now wasn't acceptable. Steve looked up. "Oh, hey, Buck." Steve's expression immediately changed. "It's all right…I'm not angry. Come on over. What's wrong?"

He tried to say that he was exhausted from attempting to remember James Buchanan Barnes, and that he was so sorry he hadn't been able remember anything of Steve's best friend that hadn't made him sick. But none of it would come out of his mouth. He huddled into the corner of the couch, and tapped his knuckles three times against the leather back, the signal that he had a lot to say but just couldn't make it happen.

"You look terrible." Steve murmured. "When was the last time you had any sleep? JARVIS, when was the last time Bucky slept?"

"Bucky has not discernibly slept in thirty-seven hours."

"What?" Steve sounded shocked. He didn't look up. He didn't want to see that look pass over Steve's face. He had seen Steve several times a day, and it had not occurred to him to indicate that he'd been too busy to sleep. He wanted to say he was sorry again, but his tongue wouldn't move. Finally Steve said, "Why don't you lay down here? You don't have to sleep, but I'd feel better if I knew you at least got some rest."

He felt too nervous to rest, but he cautiously stretched out across the wide couch and tried to make himself comfortable. He shifted around several times before he was struck with an idea and sat upright suddenly enough to make Steve jump. "What is it? What is it?" Steve asked, his expression growing concerned.

He gestured to Steve that he should stay put on the sofa, the movements jerky and frantic. Then he bolted out of the public area and into the first empty room he could find. "JARVIS!"

"Is everything all right, Bucky?"

"Want to talk to Steve. Will…record?"

"An excellent idea. Indicate to me when you are ready to begin."

He paced the room, struggling to organize how to say _everything. _

An hour or so later, he came back into the public room. The game was over, but Steve was still there. "Buck, you look like you just ran twenty miles. What's going on?"

He sat down near the end of the couch furthest from Steve. Then he drew in a deep breath and raised his eyes to the empty air. A female voice, distinctive from the one JARVIS usually used, announced the starting and stopping points.

* * *

**_-Begin message-_**

**_-Begin recording-_**

"JARVIS, I…don't think I can do this."

"Yes, you can. You're doing it right now."

"What?"

(fumbling sounds)

**_-Recording interrupted-_**

**_-Resumed recording-_**

(deep breath) "Okay. Hope this works. Steve, want you to know first I am…grateful. Grateful is not big enough word. I don't know what is. I…want…to stay in the tower with you and others. Will be good and not run away.

I always try to be good. Try to speak, try to stay with people, try to not be afraid. That is hardest. I am afraid all the time. You say I don't have to be. I try to control always, but is difficult. When I see faces, even your face, I see things I don't understand. And that usually means punishment."

**_-Recording interrupted-_**

**_-Resumed recording-_**

"JARVIS says I should tell you what I have been doing. Have been looking online for James Buchanan Barnes. You say he is me, and I know you want him back. He must be good person, if Steve cared about him enough to die for him, I think. Want to remember. I find things, mostly empty things. Do nothing. Some things bring memories, very short pieces that make me sick. For then, I _am_ him, being hurt, being scared. Scared… JARVIS…"

(silence)

**_-Recording interrupted-_**

**_-Resumed recording-_**

"Will I ever be enough James Buchanan Barnes? Am sorry to Steve that I cannot be him. Is sufficient, JARVIS? Don't know how much more I can do."

"That's entirely up to you."

"Affirmative. If Steve wants to know more, can record more later."

**_-End recording-_**

**_-End message-_**

* * *

Steve's eyes had grown wet almost from the beginning, and he listened to the rest with his face shielded from the sides by both of his hands. "Oh, God, Bucky," he said softly when the message had ended. He looked up and reached for Bucky's right hand.

He sat motionless, carefully neutral, not knowing whether a fist or a broken finger was coming next, but he would have withstood either of those things without making any noise at all, if it meant not making Steve cry. But he'd obviously made a mistake, and he deserved both of them.

Steve wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. They were red. "I don't want you to be afraid, especially not of me. I'll put a bag over my head, if my face scares you."

A bubbling rose in his throat, and suddenly he could not contain a snorting, coughing noise that sounded a lot like when Steve had almost lost the strawberry he'd been eating. He clapped both hands over his mouth and stared wide-eyed at Steve, heart pounding.

"No, no, it's fine," Steve said reassuringly. "You can laugh."

He'd laughed?

"I know when I say this that it won't really sink in yet, but I'm going to say it anyway. You can laugh, or cry, or get angry, and no one is going to punish you. And as far as me wanting you to be "James Buchanan Barnes," well… trust me, you're still him. You were always ridiculously stubborn, and from what you just told me about your secret internet searches, you still are."

He felt the briefest urge to laugh again, but this time the programmed self-control clamped down before it could come out.

"I'd like to ask a favor, though," Steve said, becoming serious. "If you have things you need to do alone, do them. You don't need me sitting on your shoulder every minute. But I want you to tell JARVIS to let me know if he thinks you need help. It's beyond me how, but he's evidently a pretty good judge."

"Praise accepted, Captain Rogers," JARVIS commented dryly.

He nodded, then looked toward the ceiling and nodded again, giving JARVIS permission to act on Steve's request. If Steve had asked him, he couldn't have defined how he was feeling. There was an unaccustomed warmth that soothed the raw edges of his fear, like the ring that surrounded golden Saturn, not quite touching, but quietly present. Safe? Protected? He didn't know.

Whatever the feeling was, it put him at ease enough so that his first nightmare took him by complete surprise.

* * *

**Ok, I cried while I wrote the draft of Bucky's recorded message to Steve. Let me know if it worked for you too.  
**

**I had to replace this chapter. I just realized it was full of typos.**


	7. Chapter 7

He knew intellectually about what happened during human sleep. He'd heard people talking or making other noises while they dreamed. He'd seen people wake from nightmares crying or screaming or looking around in confusion. But as far as he knew, he'd never experienced either one.

He had not known that they could make someone feel like he was going to die. Or worse, like he _wanted_ to die.

* * *

He'd made it to the extraction point under his own power and collapsed as soon as the handlers had confirmed mission completion.

They undressed him and quickly prepared him for surgery. He bit his lips and the inside of his mouth to keep from screaming as the gruesome injury to his torso was exposed and surrounded by sterile drapes. They'd already corrected him for moving too much and making noise, and he didn't want to disobey more than he already had.

"Soldier, your orders are to be quiet and don't move," the Chief told him. "They are going paralyze you so the surgeon doesn't slip and open your gut if you can't comply. But until you are given further instructions, you will not voluntarily move during the procedure or below your neck during recovery. Understood?"

"Affirmative," he gasped, locking his muscles and tasting blood. He couldn't breathe, it hurt it hurt but he was breathing and the mask was on his face and the doctor was humming. Her hand was cool on his belly and everything was pain as lights strobed behind his eyelids and soundless agony burned through his brain. _Don't move don't make noise._

Humming. Cutting. Pulling. _Stop let me die make it stop._

Water on his mouth. A soft apology.

Blood everywhere, on the floor, on the wall. The table. His face.

"I'm here, Bucky, I'm here."

No, Steve don't be here, no, Steve, they'll kill you too if you help me now. _Don't move don't make noise._

* * *

He wasn't sure where he was. He was on his back. A blanket had been tucked around him, but he ached with cold through his every joint. His body was frozen motionless. The pain in his ribs and abdomen flared and faded.

His right hand was warm, and Steve was somewhere nearby. The vibrations of Steve's voice traveled through the bed and into his hand. "Bucky, wake up…I don't know what to do…please, wake up. I'm here. I'm here."

With tremendous effort, he overcame the deep chill and opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit, as JARVIS had kept it since his first terrified night in the tower. He could see, but he wished right then that he couldn't. Steve's eyes were wide and red. He'd made Steve cry again. He tried to apologize, but could only make a strangled moan that shocked him back into silence. "You're all right," Steve said, gripping his hand more tightly and talking so rapidly that he was almost babbling. "You were dreaming. It was a nightmare. You're in the tower and you're safe. Just rest now, just rest."

**_CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

All physical and mental functions compromised. Injury non-evident.

He was too confused and physically drained to think. He lay quietly, drifting, as sensation and movement slowly returned to his body, led by the warmth and pressure of Steve's hand in his.

JARVIS said, "Bucky's breathing and heart rates are approaching normal, Captain Rogers."

"Thank you, JARVIS." Steve sounded weary and very, very relieved. "Bucky, are you with me?"

"They killed her." He spoke clearly at first, but his words broke as conscious thought surfaced. "She…gave me water, and they…killed…."

"What happened?"

The conditioning throttled his speech, and he could not say more.

* * *

**The incident that Bucky is remembering in his nightmare is told from another point of view in Chapter 1 of "Waste of Concern," if you feel the urge to make the comparison. **


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't remember needing so much sleep before. He knew that he had functioned for days without it, and for weeks with little more than strictly rationed naps. Now it seemed that every time he sat still for more than a few minutes, he woke a short time later paralyzed and sweating, unable to recall whatever dream had caused his body to lock. JARVIS and Steve reported that he never spoke while asleep, but only made occasional low sounds.

During the times he was awake, he wanted to be around Steve. Even to hear his voice was enough. He chose the most uncomfortable chair or place to lean that he could find and tried to keep from drifting off. He thumbed through an oversized book that Bruce had given him, finding the vivid images of space taken from spacecraft interesting enough to keep him awake for the time being. There was also something nice about turning actual pages that was more satisfying than simply flicking through internet sites. He didn't know why that should be, but he was just too tired to ponder it.

Steve was chatting with Natasha, who sipped delicately at a steaming drink. He didn't recognize the smell right away, but the word "_chai_" came to mind, followed immediately by "tea." There was something about the woman that brought Russian words to the surface for a ghost of a moment before English appeared. It didn't bother him exactly, but he wondered why.

Clint joined them a minute later. He sauntered over to Natasha and planted a kiss on top of her head, and announced, "I'll have all present know, I bested Nat in our little war game this afternoon."

"You sure did," said Natasha.

"And that's not easy to do," Clint said proudly. Then he turned toward the window, and stretched his shoulders and arms in what seemed to be overly dramatic fashion. Steve started to giggle, but suppressed it quickly. Natasha's eyes were sly and narrow. Centered on each half of Clint's behind was a single, perfectly positioned Velcro-tipped dart. Another protruded from the small of his back. He obviously had no idea they were there.

Natasha took some more tea. "Yup. You sure schooled _me_ this afternoon."

He blinked, taking in the situation. Then for the first time in 70 years, James Buchanan Barnes _laughed._

The motion in his chest and shoulders was familiar and his first thought was to wonder why he was crying. When he realized he wasn't crying, it surprised him. Rich, uninhibited laughter burst out of him. He couldn't control it at all. Steve and Natasha were watching him with wonderful wide smiles. They started to laugh too, and that made everything even better.

As he settled down, Clint looked at him in utter confusion. "What?"

Then for the second time in 70 years, James Buchanan Barnes _laughed_.

* * *

**Short chapter, doing something nice for Bucky again.**


	9. Chapter 9

"JARVIS?" He'd gone back to his room shortly after he'd learned to laugh, determined to find out what else would provoke it for him.

"Yes, Bucky?"

"What things make people laugh?"

"It is difficult to predict what an individual will find to be humorous. I can compile some media samples that are consistently rated as "funny." But there is no guarantee that you will find them to be so."

He sighed a little at that. Of course, nothing as amazing as laughter would be easy to reproduce. It seemed to have been a spontaneous response anyway, increased by Steve and Natasha's obvious enjoyment of the situation. Even Clint had laughed, after he had discovered Natasha's harmless darts on his posterior. "I'd like to see some, I think. Maybe funny, maybe not."

"Queuing samples of classic and highly rated media."

He watched them intently. Most of them contained cultural references that he did not know, or he could not figure out why the allusions he understood were were funny. A few were downright dumb. He leaned forward to view one that had been labeled as a "classic gag." A well-dressed man was walking down a busy urban sidewalk, and slipped on a banana peel. The subject fell onto his back with a startled yelp. The other pedestrians began to laugh as the man climbed back onto his feet, apparently uninjured.

That laughter was…not the good kind. Not the kind that had taken him by surprise in the common room, and not the kind that Clint had done. This was…

_On his knees. Fingers in his hair. Face pressed to the grainy concrete. Someone was laughing. Right arm suddenly wrenched behind his back. They didn't need to do that…why had they done that? He was HYDRA's to command, and he had obeyed, would always obey, without question. _

That hadn't been funny…had it?

When he'd laughed at Clint, had it been like that?

"Do you require assistance, Bucky?"

"Remembered something." He drew a shuddering breath, trying to calm surges of nausea enough to speak clearly. "Feel sick."

"Should I alert Captain Rogers?"

"Negative. Try…play music?"

"If your distress increases or does not resolve shortly, I will call Captain Rogers."

"Affirmative."

JARVIS selected a piece of instrumental electronic music with a slow, steady beat. Bird songs and rushing water had been incorporated into the rhythm. His stomach gradually relaxed and began to calm. He leaned forward onto his elbows and rested his face on his open hands. "Better. Getting better."

"I'd like to provide an observation, if I may?"

"Go ahead."

"An unpleasant memory surfaced and you employed a coping method, with success. I speculate that with practice, it will become easier for you to do so."

He considered that. "Do you really think so?"

"I do."

The idea that he could control himself without fear of punishment or threats of pain was like a distant beacon. Maybe…maybe he could exist without feeling afraid all the time. Eventually. Maybe?

"Captain Rogers has entered the suite, and he inquires if you are available."

He stood, feeling a little dizzy for a moment. He grasped the edge of the desk until the room stopped swaying. "Tell him I will join him shortly."

* * *

**Longer chapter coming up, maybe later today.**

**Gah, rife with typos. Chapter replaced.**


	10. Chapter 10

**_TACTICAL EVALUATION_**

Operations deck of Insight Helicarrier 3. No exterior walls, allowing unimpeded enemy access. Adequate maneuvering room. Support girders and buttresses providing sufficient cover. Computer core centrally located.

Threat estimate: Five targets incoming, four male, one female. Threat level maximum.

The Soldier watched like a bird of prey from his concealment on the helicarrier deck. He was patient, but he also knew he wouldn't have to wait much longer.

He spotted Iron Man first, carrying Banner. They flew overhead in a wide arc, circling, trying to view the Soldier's location from the air. It was a wasted exercise. The Soldier had been careful while selecting his cover. Iron Man landed on the deck and set Banner gently on his feet. "We know you're here." The digital voice was resonant and amplified. "What say we don't drag this out and pretend we did?"

He leaped from cover and grabbed Banner by the clavicle. His metal fingers sunk into the flesh, circling the fragile bone and feeling it snap in his hand. As the man screamed and his eyes began to glow green, the Soldier pitched him from the carrier and into the open air. Banner would transform into the raging Hulk on the way down and survive the impact, but it would take time for him to complete the fall and get back to the deck. Before then, the Soldier would eliminate as many enemies as possible and be gone.

Iron Man raised an arm and fired a repulsor. The Soldier had predicted this action and was already in motion before the force beam left the plate. The expanding blast cone passed harmlessly behind him. He lashed out with his prosthetic arm and ripped the power cell from the middle of the armored chestpiece. It sparked and began to overheat in the Soldier's grip. Iron Man fell to his knees, defensive flares popping. The Soldier dodged them easily and kicked hard, toppling Iron Man from the edge. This would buy him some extra time against Banner as well, if the monster chose an attempt to save the now helpless Iron Man instead of returning directly to the fight.

He heard the arrow before he saw it, and turned his metal arm to shield himself. The projectile pinged harmlessly from his shoulder and deflected into a girder where it began to fizzle and hiss. He caught the second arrow in his right hand, noting its trajectory and the probable location of the archer. Hawkeye had sacrificed cover for a can't-miss shot at the Soldier, and technically hadn't missed. He quickly calculated the archer's most likely escape path and speed, and fired four times, expertly leading his target. The bowman took three of the bullets in his skull as he ran, and the fourth as he fell.

Something hard plinked against the upper part of his prosthetic. Lances of electricity spiked up and down, overloading the circuits in his arm. The pain was nearly blinding, but he pushed it aside. It would take a few seconds for the back-up controls to boot, but the hydraulics were still functional and he didn't need precise aim. He hurled the super-hot arc reactor from Iron Man's suit into the origin point of the Widow's Sting. Black Widow's options were suddenly reduced to two…stay in place and be killed when the reactor's containment failed in a few seconds, or run. She elected to run, weaving and leaping. She was an elusive target, but the Soldier bided his time. When the reactor burned through its core shield and exploded, she altered her pace to compensate for the blast and took the tiniest misstep. He unloaded the rest of his clip into the central mass of her body.

"Bucky, don't do this."

He whirled and glared at Captain America. He had no idea who _Bucky_ was, and he didn't care. His pistol was empty, so he threw it aside and drew his blade. They circled each other warily, until Captain America slowly raised his hands. "I'm not going to fight you, Bucky."

The Soldier kicked out his opponent's legs with a vicious sweep and drove his boot into the downed man's gut. He rotated his weapon through his fingers to change his grip as he dropped his armored knee into Captain America's chest.

"I won't fight you," Captain America wheezed. Blood frothed and bubbled from his mouth. "You can make up your own mind. You don't have to do this."

"Hail, HYDRA," the Soldier scoffed, and plunged the knife through the thin bone of the frontal sinus above the target's left eye.

* * *

He awoke in the middle of a drawn-out scream.

He had fallen asleep on the couch. He wrapped his arms around himself and drew his body in, shaking and drenched in sweat, making noises that he could never have hoped to control. Steve was immediately at his side. More people were in the room, but he had no idea who, and he was not brave enough to look up. "Shhh," Steve soothed, patting his back. "You were asleep. You had another nightmare. It's all right."

This was different. The dream hadn't paralyzed him as the others had. It wasn't all right. He could have…

He needed Steve more than he needed air at that moment, but he tore himself out of the encircling safety and comfort and ran like hell. He ran the forty-plus flights of stairs to Steve's floor and threw himself under the desk in his room.

JARVIS' voice was modulated with a note of concern. "Bucky? Captain Rogers is at the door…"

"Don't let him in!" He laced his fingers through his hair and bumped his back several times against the wall. "Tell him I'm all right."

"You are obviously not all right."

"Tell him!"

There was a pause as JARVIS complied. "I have informed Captain Rogers. To paraphrase his response, he says that if you are not out of there in ten minutes, he's coming in."

"Understood."

It took several minutes before he had regained enough control to breathe evenly and stop trembling, but he was still shaken and frightened by his dream. He had not plotted to kill anyone in several days. He assumed it was because he had become more familiar with his surroundings, and had already calculated most of the available methods of killing them. This was more real, more visceral than simply creating mental neutralization plans. The pressure of his fist driving the blade through the resistance of the bone had been…

He reached frantically for a plastic bag, feeling more sick than he had ever been.

Steve's muffled voice reached him through the dividing door. "Bucky? Bucky?"

"I'm all right," he mumbled. Then he crawled out from under the desk and sat on the floor near the bed, his back supported by the frame. "JARVIS?"

"I'm here, Bucky."

"Record message for Steve?"

"Indicate when you are ready to begin."

* * *

**_-Begin message-_**

**_-Begin recording-_**

"Steve… I'm…not all right. I'm not. I dreamed I killed all of you. I know it is not real, not likely, but might not always be a dream. I could fight you, any of you. Could be asleep and not know. It scares me, Steve. Don't want to, but if I can't control…? It's not all right.

I will keep trying to remember and have bad dreams, I promise. I will be good. But please…_please_, if I damage anyone here, kill me. Don't let me… Kill me. Please?

**_-End recording-_**

**_-End message-_**

* * *

After JARVIS had relayed the message to Steve, the door splintered and hurtled outward, torn off its track. Before he could react, Steve had gathered him into his arms and was holding him tight. "I can't promise you that. I won't make you that promise if I don't know if I could follow through."

If he could have wept, he would have then. _You would do this for a dog, why not for me? Why not for me?_

"I don't think you would do that to any of us. But if you're afraid of it, we'll deal with it. I'll make sure you don't hurt anyone. I'll stop you. I'll stay with you every minute, and I won't let it get that far."

Steve was crying again. He'd made Steve cry three times. He nodded into Steve's shoulder to accept the compromise, because hurting Steve was the nightmare made real.


	11. Chapter 11

The only times he had ever needed anyone had been the very rare occasions when he'd been too injured during training or during missions to care for himself. He had vague impressions of being cleaned and assisted in changing position by faceless people. He'd assumed that they were medical instruments in the same way that he was a weapon, except that he knew he should obey them no matter what they told him to do. Sometimes even obedience had been painful then. But except for when he had occasionally failed to keep himself under control, it hadn't really mattered.

But now he needed Steve.

During the day, he followed Steve quietly and tried not to take up too much space or make too much noise so he wouldn't get in the way of whatever Steve was doing. If other people were present, he remained within easy reach so that Steve could grab him if he attacked anyone.

The only other person he could tolerate facing alone for short periods of time was Bruce. While he knew that JARVIS probably had methods of containing potential threats inside the tower, he had been trained in evading and neutralizing advanced security systems. He didn't want to test whether the knowledge applied to JARVIS. Bruce was different. He had zero chance of damaging the monster that Bruce could unleash from within. So Bruce often came to stay with him while Steve attended to his personal needs.

With few exceptions, the routine was acceptable during the day. Night, however, brought its own inescapable agenda.

He adamantly refused to allow Steve to stay in the room with him while he tried to sleep. It was true that he felt better while Steve was there, but he would not expose Steve to more danger than was absolutely necessary. At Steve's insistence, however, seconded by JARVIS, he left the replacement door unlocked. After Steve had destroyed the first one, there seemed to be little point in securing it.

As soon as he felt tired enough, the act of falling asleep itself was easy. He stretched out on the bed, made himself reasonably comfortable, and closed his eyes. It was the same procedure he had always followed when he had required sleep in the field. _Sleep now._ That was all it had ever been. But _wake up now_ had become useless. Several times each night he woke from his dreams in frozen silence with his muscles locked as the nightmare faded rapidly around him. There was a certain relief to waking paralyzed, though. It meant that he had not been able to cause harm to anyone while he'd dreamed. Reassurance from JARVIS was usually enough to remind him where he was and help him calm down enough to sleep again.

Sometimes he woke to the sounds of his own screams, to fresh holes in the wall and more broken furniture and Steve holding him, reminding him not only where he was but who. He struggled and howled until the words finally reached him and he no longer felt the cuffs and restraining bands. Then he sagged helplessly against Steve, convulsed with dry sobs, because he could not weep, not yet.

He didn't know how much longer he could keep his promise to be good and to endure the terrifying memories and the endless nightmares, when there seemed to be nothing good of James Buchanan Barnes left to remember. All desire he might have had to remember for himself had bled away. But Steve wasn't giving up on him, and something about Steve's stubbornness urged him to keep fighting too.


	12. Chapter 12

Sometimes he wished that they would just beat him. Then he could go back to being afraid of real things that he could predict and possibly avoid. "Do this" or "Don't do that" was so much easier to understand than "What do you want?" JARVIS would help him parse out the answer to the question. When human beings asked it, it still felt like being trapped.

He was tired. His eyes felt sore and pasty, and he was having difficulty paying attention to what was going on around him. When Steve slipped into the high-backed chair next to him, he startled upright and dropped his hands into his lap. "It's just me," Steve assured him. "Natasha's around here too, and Tony might drop by later, so consider yourself warned."

Steve set down some small bowls that momentarily focused his interest. Each was half-full of some thick liquid, each bowl containing a different bright color. He looked at Steve, not quite sure what the stuff was. Steve smiled. "It's paint. I was never much of a painter, and thought I'd give it a try today."

The only applied artificial coloration he could think of was the black paste he'd circled around his eyes while he'd been masked. This substance didn't look like it would adhere to skin very well, and the vibrant colors were obviously not appropriate for camouflage. Steve unrolled a few pieces of paper and smoothed one across the tabletop. "This is butcher paper. I'm probably just going to mess it up anyway, so I didn't want to go with expensive stuff. Do you want one?"

What was the answer? He rolled the question around in his mind, feeling more uncomfortable as seconds ticked by. _No one will hurt you again, Bucky. _He tried not to look too apprehensive as he made the effort to answer out loud because it made Steve look happy. "Affirmative."

Was that right?

"Okay! Here you are." Steve spread out some paper in front of him and weighed down the curling edges with two of the bowls. "Now, there's no right or wrong way to do this. You just put paint on the paper and see what happens."

Relieved enough to let himself be curious, he tentatively dipped the index finger of his right hand into one of the bowls that held down a corner of his paper and rubbed the green paint with his thumb. It was very smooth, and less viscous than eye blacking. It had a strange chemical smell, not strong, but unfamiliar. He wiped his fingers against the paper and wasn't too pleased to see that the stuff didn't all come off at once. He raised his discolored fingers to show Steve. "It will wash off with water when we're done, don't worry. I'm going to use a brush, but there really aren't any rules. You can put paint on an object and use it to stamp out a design, or you can mix the paints to see what different colors you get. It's just for fun."

There was no point in dirtying a brush since his two fingers were already coated with green. He touched his finger into the paint again, and trailed it over the paper. A daub of paint seemed thicker than the rest, and he tried to wipe it away with the edge of his hand, smearing it into a thin arc. He blinked at the unexpected effect, and dropped another blob onto the paper, trying to replicate the effect. He was rewarded with a more graceful arc that curved away from the first. He did that a few more times until he had curves and whirls that seemed to radiate from an arbitrary central point.

Steve took a tiny bit of paint onto his brush and gently tapped the bristles against the far corner of his paper until the paint was nearly dry. Then he moved to his painting and applied the color sparingly, turning the brush as he worked. That seemed to be a lot more work than just spreading paint with hands, and he wondered why Steve had chosen to do it that way. Without taking his eyes from his painting, Steve said, "You know, you were always more of a carving kind of guy. You liked to whittle…that's taking a piece of wood, like a stick, and removing small pieces with a pocketknife until you made something." Steve chuckled. "You took all the soap and carved it into little animals and things. There was a turtle, and a cow, and birds. You made sure not to waste the little pieces, but it was funny washing up with turtles or fish or whatever."

He didn't remember, and felt a pang of regret that he could not.

He reached for the bowl of red, and took a little onto his thumb. Then he pressed it against the paper, where it left an oval shape. He liked the way it looked against the green, so he did it again. Soon he had clustered five ovals around the middle point of his green arcs. He brushed a lock of his hair off of his forehead and regarded his work solemnly. It didn't really look like anything, but it had been interesting to make.

Steve had painted…him. It had been done quickly, with hastily mixed colors, but there was no mistaking the subject. Steve had shown him bent over his green and red painting, studying the colors with an intent expression and a green-stained right hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, just as he had been wearing them today. His hair hung nearly to his eyes. He wasn't sure what to make of it. It obviously looked like him, but there was somehow more to it than just a reproduction of his physical appearance. Steve looked up with a laugh and said, "Wait a second, it's not quite finished." He dipped the point of his brush into the green paint and carefully wiped off the excess. Then he laid a few threads of green into the long hair. "There. Now it's done."

Surprised, he reached up and found green paint dried into his hair where he had combed it back with his fingers a few moments ago. It reminded him briefly of river mud, of mud plastered through his clothes and over his face, of lying on his belly in mud with a rifle in his hands. He let out a slow breath, hoping Steve didn't notice.

If Steve noticed, he chose not to mention it. "Artists have to sign their work. See?" He used his thin brush to write "S. G. Rogers" in the lower right corner of his work.

He didn't know what to write. He still didn't think of himself as "Bucky" or as "James Buchanan Barnes," or as anyone. They were just names to let him know when he was being addressed. So he shrugged and shook his head, hoping that he wouldn't make Steve cry again because he couldn't sign his work. To his relief, Steve just looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, "Do you want to keep your picture? I'm keeping this one for sure. I like it, and it's the only one I have left of you."

Later, after the paint had completely dried and the brushes and the bowls had been cleaned and put away, he went up to the room and carefully squared his picture on top the book of space photographs from Bruce. It was the second thing he had ever owned that he could remember, and the first that he had made himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**_-Message from Anthony Stark recorded today at 1:23am-_**

"Heyyy, Buckster! Did ya think you and Freezy Flags were the only ones who knew how to record messages? I've graciously informed everyone else, so you're welcome. You have to come down to my lab sometime. I'm working on some fun stuff, and to be _perfectly_ honest, I wouldn't mind getting a chance to peek at your arm. Or into it, you know how that goes."

"Sir, I must advise you that…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, JARVIS. I have to be sure not to sound like I'm making an offer he can't refuse."

"That is true as well, however, Sir…"

"When you feel like coming down, just let me know. Even if it's only to look around and not sit in my biotech scanner. Seriously. I mean it."

"Sir, the pressurized gas containers have exceeded their recommended safety margins and are approaching critical levels."

"Oh sh—"

(muffled boom)

**_-End Message-_**

* * *

He almost laughed after listening to the message, but he wasn't sure whether it would be the good laughter or like the laughter that was like watching someone slip on a banana peel, or that came from people while they'd twisted his arm. "Was that…funny, JARVIS?"

"If it makes any difference, Mr. Stark was not injured in that particular explosion. I had deployed an airbag that he'd had the unusual foresight to install prior to this particular experiment."

"Oh." He rubbed his neck with his left hand, where the cool metal felt good. His headaches had started again, since he'd only been getting broken sleep because of the nightmares. "Maybe if it had been video, it would be funny. Not funny if Tony gets hurt."

"I think nearly everyone would agree with that assessment."

* * *

**_-Message from Natasha Romanoff recorded today at 2:48pm-_**

"I saw the green paint in your hair earlier. Cute. If you decide all of a sudden you want a haircut, I can do it fast. I can't promise amazing results, but I've cut enough hair in a big hurry to make it look decent."

**_-End Message-_**

* * *

HYDRA hadn't cared much about his hair, as long as his mask and other equipment had fit correctly. When it got in his way, he'd simply hacked it off himself with whatever sharp implement was at hand. He'd been shaving every day with the electric razor Steve had left for him. He was sure it had been offered instead of one that could obviously be utilized as a weapon, even though it was perfectly simple to kill or incapacitate someone with an electric. He wasn't sure the word for that was "funny," but it sort of was.

Maybe he'd let Natasha cut his hair for him. If he got too anxious, he could ask her to stop. That hadn't worked too well in the past, but maybe it would now? "I don't know if I want a haircut," he said thinly.

"There is no requirement to cut it." JARVIS replied. "I'm sure you could tie it back if it annoys you,"

"It doesn't yet. It was longer before, I think."

* * *

**_-Message from Bruce Banner recorded today at 3:00pm-_**

"Hi, Bucky. The weather report says that conditions should be pretty good for viewing this evening, so I'm going to set up the telescope and try to see some of the more distant bodies. It will be pretty late, after some of the building lights have gone off, probably after midnight. If you're up, feel free to join me."

**_-End Message-_**

* * *

He wanted very much to look at the sky through the telescope again, but he was just so _tired_, and he needed to take every chance he could get to sleep at night. He didn't think it would bother Bruce if he didn't feel up to it…would it? He wished someone would just _tell _him what to do. "JARVIS…How can I tell Bruce I want to look, but am also tired?"

"I doubt that Dr. Banner expects you to interrupt your sleep to join his viewing session. The implication seems to be that if you are already having trouble sleeping and would like a diversion, you may share in his activity."

"Oh. I understand now. Feel better."

* * *

**_-Message from Clint Barton recorded today at 5:05pm-_**

"Yo. I don't really have anything to say, but since everyone else figured out they could message you, I didn't want to be the lame-o. Steve told me that day in the common room was the first time you'd laughed. I'm…honored. And I'm really glad you're here."

**_-End Message-_**

* * *

He stared into empty air for a while after he'd listened to Clint's message. Clint was glad for…him? He'd missed something, he was sure of it, and replayed the message. But he could still detect no reason why Clint, or anyone else for that matter, would be glad he was there. He'd disrupted everyone's routines and been nothing but an energy drain, particularly on Steve.

* * *

**_-SYSTEM Message-_**

The System Message had just appeared. It was not an audio recording like the others, but a video attachment. "What is this?" he asked.

"Open it when you are ready, Bucky, and you'll see."

"I'm ready."

It was a video recording of Tony's experiment. "Heyyy, Buckster!" Tony was saying. "Did ya think you and Freezy Flags were the only ones who knew how to record messages?"

He leaned forward to watch, feeling the corners of his mouth begin to pull upward in anticipation.

Immediately before the explosion that had been captured on the audio message, the viewing angle shifted to a device that had been mounted farther away and higher, looking almost directly down on the scene. A wave of pressurized gas burst from out of frame and knocked Tony backwards off his feet. There was a loud bang and a cloud of powder that obscured the camera.

"Are you injured, Sir?" JARVIS' voice inquired a few moments later.

Tony struggled out of an enveloping mass of collapsed airbag as the heavy powder settled. He was completely coated in chalky white gunk, with the exception of his dark eyes. "Going to take a break for a few minutes, JARVIS."

"I will start the shower and have a drink prepared and waiting, Sir."

"Thanks," said Tony, picking his way stiffly past the camera.

He watched the entire video with that strange upward pull on his face, then burst into spasms of helpless, wonderful laughter that wrinkled his nose and squinched his eyes. His arms automatically slid around his ribs and stayed there until he could catch his breath.


	14. Chapter 14

_Sleep now._

"Bucky?"

_"You have new targets," his handler informed him. "I want confirmed kills in ten hours."_

"Shhhh. You're safe. You're with me in the tower, and you're safe."

_No, Steve, they're here and I don't want to. I don't know what to do, it hurts._

His own pained wail brought him to consciousness. He was sitting up, crumpled into Steve's chest and panting like a frightened animal. Steve's hand was locked tightly around his right wrist, and his metal arm was pinned to the wall against Steve's back. "Easy there," Steve said, his voice steadying. "Are you with me?"

His throat was dry and sore. "Affirmative."

"I'm going to let go of you. Three…two…one." Steve leaned forward and shifted to release his left arm, and then let go of the right. "There. I've got you, just rest."

His heart hammered like a sparrow's as Steve held him. "A dream?" he asked raggedly.

"Yes. You've been asleep. Just a dream."

Threatening shadows still lurked in the corners, but he tried to calm down. Then he noticed a smear of crimson on Steve's wrist. He sat up and stared at it.

Steve looked down and saw the blood as well. "It's nothing."

Steve was _bleeding_. But there was no visible wound on his hand or arm. Where was it? He grabbed Steve's forearm and turned it over, examining carefully for injuries and growing more worried and agitated when he did not find anything.

"It's up here. But really, it's not a big deal."

Steve's left eye was swollen and black. Blood crusted his under his nose, but it had stopped flowing within the last few minutes. That wasn't nothing! He'd hurt Steve … He scrambled away to the other end of the bed and rolled onto his knees, facing Steve. Then he bent his back until his forehead touched the mattress and clasped his hands behind his neck.

"What are you doing?"

He trembled, his voice a whimper. "Please."

"What?"

_Just hit me, just do it, I don't care if you use your fist or a weapon, just please, I hurt you, I can't do that again, don't let me, I don't want to, I want to be good, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

"JARVIS, do you know what he wants?"

"From his posture, I would infer that he wishes for you to punish him."

"Punish him?" Steve wavered.

He remained silent, shaking, but braced and ready for what was coming. Then Steve's hand was warm on his back, gently rubbing between his shoulder blades. Why was Steve doing that? He didn't deserve to be comforted after what he'd done. He was startled when Steve started to speak.

"This isn't the first black eye I've ever had. As shiners go, this one isn't even that impressive." Steve hesitated and cleared his throat. "You didn't do it on purpose, Buck. You were thrashing around in your dream, and elbowed me in the eye. It was just random."

"Hurt…you." He forced himself to say it, even though he was screaming inside to just shut up and accept his punishment.

"You didn't mean it. If you'd meant it, I would have had to do a lot more than just lay across your arm to hold you back. Now come on, sit up." Steve's hands unwound his laced fingers and helped him rise back onto his knees. He bit his lip and kept his gaze down. "It's not bad. Look," Steve said.

He didn't want to look at the damage he'd done, but Steve had told him to look. When he raised his head, he nearly cried out in shock. It was Steve, but superimposed with the smaller, thinner Steve he'd seen in his online searches. But just as the double image had been on the helicarrier, the two were the same man where the blue eyes met.

* * *

_"You got a good one this time," Bucky said. He wrung cold water out of a dripping towel and placed it over Steve's swollen and darkening eye. "Can't say I've seen one better."_

_"You should'da seen the other guy." Steve accepted the cloth and pressed it to his eye with a wince._

_"Oh? I didn't see him. Was he in the trash can too?"_

_"Shut up," Steve growled. "You know what I mean."_

_"I know this isn't your first black eye. Or bloody nose. Or busted chin. Or…"_

_"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"_

_"You did." Bucky's grin was impish. "But if I didn't pick on you, you'd think something was really wrong." He examined Steve critically, and noted that his nose was still bleeding. "Stay here and keep that on your eye. Lean forward, and hold your nose. Tighter than that, really pinch it. I'm going to run downstairs and see if anyone can spare a chunk of ice."_

_"Thanks, Buck."_

_"Someone's got to look after you, since you're not going to." He was out the door before Steve could form a retort. It was a good thing, too. Bucky didn't want the dumb punk to see how worried he actually was. _

* * *

"Bucky? Oh, God, Bucky, you're crying…"

Tears clung to his eyelashes. He felt them release and stream down his face and tasted their salt on his lips. He'd sometimes cried when he'd been in too much pain to control it. The only other time he remembered crying was when Ron had told him that Steve was alive and looking for him. But this wasn't pain, and it hadn't come from being told about a person or an event. This came from somewhere deep inside himself. "Remembered something," he said softly, blinking. "Something good."

"What? What did you remember?"

"You. I know you. And Bucky." He raised his wet eyes to meet Steve's. "I'm Bucky."

Steve shuddered and looked toward the ceiling as the familiar tears welled in his eyes. But Bucky understood more about crying now, and doubted that they had come because he'd done something wrong. He extended his hand, and traced the tracks of Steve's tears with one finger.


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky wondered whether James Buchanan Barnes had ever cried before he'd fallen from the train. There was no way to tell from the Smithsonian video. Barnes probably had, though, since he'd already known how to smile and laugh. And although Bucky wasn't sure exactly "who" he was yet, he knew now beyond any doubt that the "what" was human. He'd thought he was a weapon. Weapons were allowed to cry for a short time when pain overwhelmed conditioning, and then they were punished and put into the chair until those counterproductive emotions were silenced. But weapons didn't need to have their emotions cut and burned away until they couldn't feel. Bucky reminded himself of that often, when he cried or felt other things that he didn't understand. James Buchanan Barnes had been human, and so was he.

But humans apparently didn't always know what they cried about.

Bucky had begun his sleep preparations at the usual time. He brushed his teeth and carefully combed the snarls out of his unruly hair so it wouldn't be as difficult to do again in the morning. He pulled off his clothes and slipped into the soft pajama bottoms like the ones Steve favored for sleeping, though it seemed pointless to wear a set of clothes for sleeping, and another set for everything else. Steve also wore a loose shirt to bed because he said he had never been able to get used to sleeping in air conditioning. Bucky had tried them too, but he'd ruined the first few shirts during his nightmares. Temperature had never mattered much before when he'd needed sleep anyway, so he hadn't attempted to wear any again.

This time, though, when Bucky settled onto the mattress and pulled the covers over his bare skin, he noticed the cool sheet and the weight of the blanket. Instead of ordering himself directly to sleep, he closed his eyes and felt his body heat gradually warm the pocket of air around him. He gathered a double handful of the covers over his forehead and was a little surprised when even his ears and the tip of his nose began to feel pleasurably warm. As he nestled into the soothing warmth and his body relaxed, however, tears pressed from his eyes and trailed down his face. Bucky scrubbed them away with the side of his hand, but they kept coming. He rolled onto his back. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Bucky?"

"I don't know why I'm crying."

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"Negative." He pulled the blanket a little more securely around himself. "I don't hurt anywhere, and I am not remembering anything."

"I might not be able to provide an explanation for you. Should I call Captain Rogers?"

He didn't feel bad enough to wake up Steve. He didn't feel bad at all really, but then why was he crying? "I need to think about it first."

JARVIS asked, "What happened right before the crying began?"

Bucky wiped his eyes again, and thought about his evening routine and how it had been different tonight. "I found out I like being warm."

"Perhaps being warm is significant to you in some way?" JARVIS suggested.

What else had there been? He'd been warm, and comfortable. He shifted back onto his side, and tried to recall exactly what he'd done. The only other thing he hadn't done before was that he'd pulled up the covers. He pulled them over his head again and closed his eyes, like before.

And there it was. It had come upon him so quickly that he'd mistaken it for physical comfort. Steve had said the word to him many times as he'd struggled to wake from the painful night terrors. He just hadn't known what it meant until now.

"I'm safe," Bucky whispered. "I feel safe."

He decided that these were a good kind of tears, and didn't wipe them away. He allowed them to roll freely over his face and into his pillow until he finally fell asleep.

* * *

**Love for Bucky. **

**I love JARVIS too, but he tells me he doesn't need it.**


	16. Chapter 16

When he woke, he was hungry. No, Bucky corrected himself…he was _starving._

But this wasn't starvation. He'd felt _starving_ before. That was a grinding ache everywhere, heart fluttering, collapsing in a helpless heap. But this was more than just hungry. This was ferociously hungry. Steve had told him he could eat when he felt like it and he surely did now.

"JARVIS, what time is it?"

"It is 2:43am. You have been asleep for four hours."

He didn't feel much more rested himself, but he was proud that he'd been able to give Steve four solid hours of sleep. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and wondered whether it would be acceptable for him to forage alone, or whether he should risk waking Steve by trying to find food in the smaller kitchen in the suite. "I'm really hungry, but I don't want to wake up Steve."

"The downstairs kitchen is currently unoccupied," reported JARVIS. "Dr. Banner is asleep. Mr. Stark is in his laboratory and is unlikely to emerge any time soon. Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barton are not in the tower."

He headed for the elevator and then stopped. "If Steve wakes up, will you tell him where I am?"

"Of course."

Bucky's stomach was begging by the time he reached the kitchen area. It was exactly then that he realized he had no idea how to cook anything. During his first days at Stark Tower, he'd eaten pretty much whatever had been put in front of him, without really noticing how it had been prepared. Later, he'd watched Steve use the microwave, but even the labeled buttons were no help. Power? Time? Popcorn? Maybe if he could find some popcorn…

He opened a cabinet and found a box of plain cornflakes. He didn't care for them much, but he knew what they were, so he grabbed the box. Further exploration revealed a bottle of some sort of exotic-looking chocolate sauce. He didn't remember what chocolate tasted like, but the picture on the label was attractive, and an experimental sniff made his mouth water. He tucked that under his arm too. He found a jar of peanut butter, and since mustard was sort of the same color as peanut butter, he scooped that up as well and brought them all to the island in the center of the kitchen.

There were no strawberries in the refrigerator, which disappointed him a little. But there was a small carton of some other kind of berry, little round things that were so blue they were almost black. He knew he liked strawberries, so how bad could these be? There was a round roll of sliced meat there too, that looked familiar. Steve had brought sandwiches that first day on the rooftop. _Bologna, _he remembered the word for that kind of meat. That went onto the island with the rest of the food. A bowl and a spoon were all he needed, and he remembered where those were. The bowl was a mixing bowl, but he thought it would be acceptable.

He poured the cornflakes into the oversized bowl, and tore a few slices of the bologna into little pieces and dropped those on top of the cereal. The rich aroma of the peanut butter drove him to distraction when he opened the jar, and he shoveled several spoonfuls directly into his mouth before a generous dollop went into the bowl. It was too thick to stir, so Bucky thinned it with drizzles of chocolate sauce and blobs of the mustard until the cornflakes were completely coated. The entire carton of the dark blue berries topped off the concoction.

It was the most perfect thing he'd ever eaten…crunchy, sweet, salty and many other flavors that he just didn't know the words for. Bucky ate it happily until it was gone, then he abandoned the spoon and ran his fingers around the inside of the bowl and licked them clean. He smiled, feeling much better.

Then he realized that in his hurry, he'd made a huge mess. Cornflakes and mustard had lapped over the edge of the bowl while he'd been trying to stir it all together. Chocolate sauce had run down the side of the bottle and pooled on the tabletop. Bologna grease coated the bottles and jars and left smudged fingerprints on the outside of the box of cornflakes. It was a good thing he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt either, or it would have been sticky like his hands and mouth were now. It was even in his hair, and he didn't remember reaching up to brush his hair out of his face.

Maybe he should take Natasha up on her offer to give him a haircut.

Bucky asked JARVIS where the cleaning supplies were kept, and spent the next hour reading the directions and carefully mopping up the disaster. He placed the restored food containers back into the cabinets and the refrigerator, and washed the bowl and the spoon.

When he was satisfied that the kitchen was as clean as he had found it…possibly cleaner…he took the stairs back to Steve's floor to avoid meeting anyone and ran a hot shower.

**_-Message from Steven Rogers recorded today at 10:46am-_**

He'd been looking sleepily through his book of space photographs when the message from Steve arrived. "What's this, JARVIS?" Bucky asked, trying unsuccessfully to smother a yawn.

"It is an audio file. Let me know when you are ready to open it."

He sat up straight. "I'm ready."

* * *

Clint's voice was grumpy. "Which one of you goblins ate all the damn blueberries?"

Steve said, "I don't know, Clint, but someone did some massive damage to the peanut butter, too."

"Blueberries and peanut butter? Who the hell eats those together?"

"Maybe we just don't know what we're missing." Steve sounded like he was trying not to laugh. "I bet it would be great with mustard in it. Maybe some cornflakes for texture. What do you think?"

"Blech. No-thank-you-very-much."

**_-End Message-_**

* * *

Bucky very carefully stood up from the chair and sat on the floor. Then he laughed until he had no breath left.


	17. Chapter 17

"Natasha, will you please cut my hair?"

JARVIS responded, "Excellent."

Bucky had been preparing himself. He didn't know how many times he'd repeated the phrase already, but he'd been practicing for at least 30 minutes. "Natasha, will you please cut my hair?"

"Excellent again."

"I think I'm ready."

"Ms. Romanoff and Captain Rogers are in transit to the common area."

He kept rolling the words through his mouth, whispering them into the quiet as the elevator brought him downstairs. "Natasha, will you please cut my hair?"

His speech was fluent and smooth as he moved down the hallway and turned into the room where Steve had been watching baseball. Everything was fine until he actually saw Natasha, and the meticulously rehearsed question began to buzz and shift and his brain lost communication with his tongue.

Steve noticed him quickly, and the recognition and happiness in the smile made Bucky's heart ache. "Hi, Buck! We were going to watch a movie. Want to join us?"

"I…" he faltered. Natasha was looking at him with a composed, neutral expression that he could not read. "_Pozhalujsta..." _The Russian word burned as it left his lips, and then he suddenly couldn't find any words at all. He frowned and twisted a piece of his hair in his fingers, and made himself look directly at her, even though his eyes wanted to remain on the floor.

"Do you understand what he wants, Natasha?" Steve asked, looking puzzled.

"I think he wants me to cut his hair," she replied, seeming a little surprised. "Is that it?"

He nodded dumbly, and finally allowed himself the relief of lowering his gaze.

"We can do it right now. Steve, would you find him someplace to sit? I'm going to get my kit."

As Natasha left the room, Steve took a tall barstool and set it nearer the leather couch. "You don't have to do this," he said, sitting down on the sofa's broad arm. "Only if you want to."

"Affirmative," Bucky said somberly, and raised himself onto the seat. It was important to him to be able to choose to do something himself, even if the follow-through made his stomach start to cramp and gave him the urge to run back to the bedroom and hide. "Stay?" he asked Steve. Steve squeezed his upper arm reassuringly and settled down to wait with him.

Natasha's kit was a large, compartmented box that opened into layers. It contained pots and tubes of colored makeup, eyeglasses, prosthetic tooth plates and at least two wigs of different colored hair. He'd never had any use for disguises, other than for camouflage, but the kit was interesting to him. Bucky wanted to look through it, but didn't know how to ask, or even whether he should.

Natasha draped a towel over his back and fastened it with a safety pin. Then she retrieved a black electric clipper from the bottom layer, selected a toothed fence, and snapped it into place. "This is going to make a little noise," she warned him, and toggled the switch. The sharp metallic buzz was louder than he'd expected, but it didn't frighten him. "I'm going to cut it in three short stages. The longer you can let me do it, the better it will look."

He didn't really care how it looked. He just wanted it to be over. He glanced at Steve and nodded silently.

"Here we go."

It wasn't the sound of the clipper so close to his ear that triggered the sudden crushing pressure in his chest and the flashes of light behind his closed eyelids. It wasn't the vibration of the metal and the plastic on his scalp, or the sound of the cutting head as it rasped though his thick hair.

It was Natasha's warm hand on his shoulder and the light brush of her fingers against his neck.

Soft hands had wakened him to emptiness and pain and had caressed him until he could stop screaming. Someone's hands had dripped water onto his parched mouth. Hands had curled his around the grip of an unfamiliar weapon. Hands on his body had guided him, positioned him, forced him to his knees or pushed him into restraints.

Bucky cried silently as she touched him, even as he held himself perfectly still so she wouldn't stop.

Steve's hands enfolded both of his, steady and comforting. "Are you all right?"

"Affirmative," he replied hoarsely. "Cut."

A short time later, Natasha turned off the clipper and brought out a pair of sharp scissors and a comb. His breath came shallow and quick, and he tightened his grip on Steve's hands. "Almost done," Steve said.

Natasha removed the fence from the clipper and began to trim his neck and around his ears. Bucky tasted blood and heard the pop and crackle of electricity through his brain. "I'm safe," he whispered, and concentrated on Steve's hands. "I'm safe." _I am in the tower and Steve is here and Natasha is cutting my hair._ "I'm safe. I'm safe."

Then it was finished. Steve took Bucky's face in both his hands and spoke to him softly. "You did it! Are you with me? You did it!"

He opened his eyes. Curling wisps of brown hair mounded all over the floor. Natasha asked, "Do you want to see yourself? I've got a mirror."

He felt cooler and lighter, and his hair would undoubtedly be much easier to care for like this. But Bucky wasn't sure he wanted to see it. James Buchanan Barnes had worn his hair short. He knew that the mirror would only reflect someone he could never be, no matter how hard he tried. "Don't…not want look."

"I have an idea," Steve said. "Nat, have you got some paper?"

Steve borrowed one of Natasha's makeup pencils and sketched quickly on a scrap of paper. A minute or so later, he presented his work to Bucky. Bucky looked at the image of _him_ in wonder. His eyes were half-closed and downcast, and there was an uncertain stillness in his posture that pictures of Barnes did not have. His gleaming metal arm was crossed over his chest to loosely grip his right shoulder, and Barnes had definitely not had that. His hair was no longer the scraggly mess that it had been in the picture Steve had painted of him before. It was neatly trimmed, somewhat shorter on the sides and longer in front, and combed back from his face. He raised his hand to feel it. It was wavy and much softer than it had been.

"Is that a smile?" Natasha asked, her expression warming.

"I think so," Steve said with a grin of his own. "Be careful with the drawing, though. That makeup stuff will smear easily. We can spray some fixative on it later, if you want to keep it."

He did want to keep it. Then he noticed that Steve had written something near the bottom.

_"You did it, Buck."_

Bucky hadn't wanted to cry again, but he did. Then he watched the movie while sitting sandwiched between Steve and Natasha, eating popcorn and feeling safe.


	18. Chapter 18

He tried to be still. Boots thudded outside. Voices were shouting, angry. It was cold, so cold. He started to shiver, but controlled himself. _Don't move don't make noise._

"What happened?" The fury and urgency in the man's voice confirmed that he'd done something terribly wrong. "What did you do?"

He would have replied, if it had been allowed. He'd reached for the glass plate. He shouldn't have, but he'd reached up to touch the reflection of the vaguely familiar man with the pale face and the hollow eyes. He didn't know why he had. He'd been stupid. He must have damaged the cryo machine, or they wouldn't have halted the protocol. The handlers would help him to not be so stupid before they made another attempt.

"I didn't do _anything_. He showed up here, and I gave him the ten-cent tour. I asked him if he wanted me to take a look at his arm, and he said "okay." I poked around a little bit, and he seemed fine."

"Well, he's obviously not _fine_."

"I figured out that part, Spangles."

He was stupid and tired and had started shivering again. Breaking equipment wasn't fine. Discipline failures weren't fine. He wasn't fine.

"Tony, do you have a blanket around here? He's freezing."

"Hey, it's got to be kept cool in here or the computers…never mind. Getting a blanket, Captain Sir."

Someone wrapped a thick quilt around his shoulders. It smelled of something spicy and clean. He started to explore the soft material with his fingers but stopped himself when he remembered that he wasn't supposed to touch things without permission. The man who had ordered the blanket was tucking the edges around him. "Bucky? Are you with me?"

"Cold." That wasn't an acceptable answer, but it was the only meaningful thing he had to report.

"I know." The man wrapped one arm around his back. Why was he doing that? If he was allowed to warm up too much, it would ruin the protocol and they'd have to start over. But he wasn't supposed to have an opinion, so he shoved it away and remained quiet.

"Here, see if he'll take some of this. Don't look at me like that…it's just hot water."

"Here, drink this." A cup was at his lips. He took a mouthful of the liquid because he had been ordered to and swallowed it down. He was urged to take a second sip, and a third. "Buck? Do you know where you are?"

He tried to concentrate, tried to reach back in his mind. To his surprise, there was a memory. "Tower?"

"That's right."

"Steve?"

"I'm right here." The arm pressed around him more tightly. "What happened?"

"Wanted to see…" He blinked, trying to think, but it was difficult. "Don't know."

Tony crouched down beside them. "You came into my lab. Well, you stood in the doorway like you were expecting a bear trap. I let you in and showed you around."

He nodded. Steve offered him another drink, and he took it. "Saw in glass."

Tony's brow furrowed. "Glass? Oh, the partition?" He pointed to a mid-height, reinforced wall with an inset viewing pane. "I'd wheeled that over for something blasty I was doing earlier. You saw something in the glass?"

"Saw me," he said, nodding to indicate that Tony had been correct. He put both of his hands around the cup that Steve held, and let the warm steam drift into his face. "Was cold."

Steve seemed to think over the new information for a few moments. "I think I get it. You saw yourself in the glass window. It's sort of chilly in here, too…" he rolled his eyes and cut off Tony's protest. "Understandably chilly. And you haven't gotten more than a few hours of sleep at a time for weeks."

Tony was staring at him intently, with a strange look in his dark eyes. His voice dropped into a strained monotone. "You thought you were going into cryo. You thought you were in that damned HYDRA cryo tank." He stood up and began to pace with his hand pressed to his forehead.

"Sounds like it," Steve said. "I'm going to see you get some sleep. Right now. Tony, can we borrow this quilt for a while?"

"Yeah." Tony's answer was clipped.

"Okay. Come on, Bucky, we're going upstairs."

He could not help leaning against Steve in the elevator, but Steve didn't order him to stand up straight. Steve helped him sit on the edge of the bed, and pulled off his shoes. "Do you want your pajamas?"

"Don't care." He wasn't supposed to care. He was too tired to care.

"All right then. Just lie down. JARVIS, play some music he likes, nothing too fast."

"Queuing Madonna."

"You're kidding, right? "Let's Get Unconscious"?"

JARVIS replied, "It is a random selection from his playlist within the appropriate tempo specification. I will provide another if it is not suitable."

"No, it's fine, I guess."

He felt Steve adjust the quilt so that he was more completely covered. Then Steve climbed into bed next to him. "No, Steve," he protested. What if he lashed out and hurt Steve while he was asleep? Last time had not been serious, but he couldn't know if it would happen again.

"Bucky, you're exhausted. I can take care of it." Steve's hand raked through his hair, soothing him. "Go to sleep."

He didn't want to, but he was too tired to resist. Why should he resist? He'd been given an order.

_Sleep now._

* * *

**More Tony coming up later! Probably won't get to post this weekend though :(**


	19. Chapter 19

Bucky woke sprawled on his stomach with the pasty feeling of dry wool in his mouth and his face plastered to a wet patch on the pillow. He rolled onto his back with a grimace and sat up slowly, still cocooned in the thick quilt that smelled of Tony's aftershave. At some point he'd been undressed and put into his softer sleeping pants. He experienced a flash of panic when he realized that he didn't remember that happening.

"It's all right." Bucky whipped around, startled to hear Bruce. Bruce was seated comfortably at the desk, and set down the tablet he'd been reading. "You sort of woke up at one point, but were still pretty out of it, probably sleepwalking. We made sure you drank some water and put you in your regular bed clothes. You passed out again directly after."

"How long?" he asked blearily, rubbing his neck.

"Close to eighteen hours. You've got quite a sleep deficit to make up for, and you might not be done yet. How do you feel?"

"Operational." He was stiff all over and his eyes felt like they'd been adhered and scraped open. But his head felt clearer and it was easier to think.

Bruce made a noncommittal noise. "Steve is grabbing a shower and will be back in a little while. I had to work to convince him to do it, too. He's been here almost the whole time."

He sighed. "I make trouble."

"Watching someone sleep isn't any trouble."

Somehow, Bucky doubted it had been as simple as just watching him sleep. Had there been nightmares? Had he fought or screamed or broken more things? Had he hurt anyone? The words came with frustrating slowness. "Dreams…bad dreams?"

"You should ask Steve. I wasn't here for most of it."

But Bruce's eyes were like dark wells, and Bucky already knew the answer. He glanced around the small bedroom, absorbing the spiderwebbed cracks in the walls, the new chair in which Bruce was sitting, and the torn edge of the mattress. "Steve all right?"

"He's fine. You didn't lay a metal finger on him, if that's what you're asking."

Relief flooded through him. "Not all right to hurt Steve," he said and stared into the ceiling. "Not all right to make noise or do bad things. Not all right to...make worry."

Bruce shifted in his seat and leaned forward with his hands in his lap. "You've been injured, Bucky. You need care now. We don't mind doing that for you."

**_CONDITION ASSESSMENT_**

All physical and mental functions operational. Injury non-evident.

What had Bruce meant? He wasn't in optimal condition, but he detected no current physical injuries. "Status evaluation. Prior injuries healed, no cause for further consideration." Bruce blinked in stunned surprise, but Bucky continued his verbal report. "Mobility at one hundred percent. Mental functions sub-optimal. Retraining recommended but not required at this time."

"Bucky, is this how HYDRA wanted you to talk to them? My God. Retraining?"

When he'd been allowed to speak at all, the handlers had always demanded quick, concise information. Bruce had a particularly intense expression on his face, and Bucky shied away from it, his speech broken once again.

"No, no, don't be afraid. This is…outrage, I guess. Outrage at what they did to you." His voice suddenly deepened into a thick growl. "I have to go. Right now." Bruce stood up quickly and made his way toward the door, almost running. "Steve will be back in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder.

Bucky watched him go, then bit his lip. The transformation was distressing to Banner, and Bucky hadn't meant to be the cause. He would have to control himself better around Bruce, that's all there was to it.

* * *

**_-Message from Anthony Stark recorded yesterday at 2:13am-_**

Hey, Cold Warrior…crap, didn't want to start that way. _Bucky._ I need to talk to you. If you can escape from Caps…Rogers, dammit, I mean Rogers. It doesn't have to be today, just whenever. Whenever.

(clinking noise)

I hope you don't mind liquid courage being on board. Better living through chemistry, right? I won't look at your arm, or put you next to any glass walls. Well, no absolute promises about your arm. I gotta be me, right?

(bitter laugh)

Yeah. I_ gotta_ be me.

Just show up at the door to my lab. I'm not going anywhere.

**_-End message-_**


	20. Chapter 20

Bucky hadn't thought that anything could be worse than the icy freefall in his belly when he knew he'd disappointed Steve. Sometimes when he couldn't remember, or said something that was unacceptable, or couldn't even speak at all, that _look _would cross Steve's face. It was a mixture of a tight frown and a shadow that dropped across his eyes. Bucky had seen that expression before on other faces, and in those fractions of seconds before the fists and the blood and the electricity, he knew that he'd done _wrong_. He hated to see that look, even though Steve had promised that no one would hurt him again. Because not being what Steve wanted did hurt him, even if it wasn't followed up with punishment.

But it was much, much worse when Steve yelled.

"Tony wants WHAT?" Steve shouted, turning suddenly.

"Wants…" Bucky closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. "Wants talk with me."

Steve's voice was loud, and he paced angrily. "Why?"

"Don't know," Bucky answered. His voice was impassive, but his eyes followed Steve, automatically waiting for the telltale twitch of muscles that would signal an incoming slap, even though Steve had never hit him, would never hit him, no matter how much he deserved it.

"That jackass sends you a message out of nowhere while he's drunk off his keester, and asks you to go down into his lab for a "talk…" while you're still getting over the last little "talk" you two had! He has no idea what he's asking you to do!" Steve stopped pacing and faced Bucky.

There was the _look_. He'd done wrong again. He slid out of the new chair and onto his knees. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Steve asked. His tone lost the hard edge of anger. He knelt beside Bucky. "What happened? What are you sorry for?"

"I…" he stammered. He shook his head hard, trying to clear the jumbled tangle of words. "Angry. Made you angry. Made Bruce angry." His chest was tight, and his stomach was churning. "Tony angry. Sorry make people angry. Sorry, Steve."

"Buck, I'm not angry at you. Bruce isn't angry at you. No wonder you're upset. Listen, I'm mad at Tony for dragging you into his idiocy, but not at you." Steve was silent for a moment. "I'm a jerk."

"No, Steve." Bucky said solemnly. "You're a punk."

He wasn't sure what to make of it when Steve laughed and cried at the same time. "You're right."

"Tony is a jackass." He repeated that out loud as well, trying to sort the new labels into some semblance of logical order.

Steve laughed harder, and put his arms around him. Bucky rested his head against Steve's shoulder. Nothing could be wrong while Steve held him. It felt like being safely concealed in a well-protected gun emplacement, or being allowed a long drink of cold water when he was thirsty. Like strawberries and movies with popcorn and those rings around Saturn and JARVIS leaving the lights on at night. He wasn't sure when he began to have good things to remember, but thinking about them made him begin to feel better.

"So if I'm a punk, and Tony is a jackass, who do you want to be?"

If he was allowed to want something, he wanted to be Steve's lost friend more than anything.

The name, rank and service number had been more disconnected, meaningless information he'd gleaned from an internet page. But he suddenly remembered how to say them, how Barnes had said them. "Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven-oh-three-eight."

This time Bucky found himself holding Steve, letting Steve rest against his shoulder as his friend broke down.


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: At least one person has expressed disappointment over the use of the "f-bomb." It's not a word I would normally use, but no matter how I tried, nothing else seemed to express Tony's frustration he can't drop being a self-absorbed, defensive jerk long enough to call Bucky by the name he's worked so hard to earn, instead of by some pop culture reference. Tony's had to get massively drunk to even talk to Bucky person-to-person, especially after Bucky's cryo flashback in the lab. If enough people are upset over it, I wouldn't mind changing it, but I think it will lose some of the impact that I wanted. Rest assured, it wasn't a flippant or random word choice.**

* * *

_The bricks were worn and crumbling in spots, but that made climbing super easy. Bucky eased himself over the top edge of the apartment building and gripped the stonework as he explored with the toe of his shoe. When he found a niche, he moved his hands to the next solid-seeming place, and tested it with his weight before he extended his other leg. Bit by bit, he worked his way from the roof down the exterior wall, until he reached the curtained window. He planted both feet on the open sill and swung into the tiny room beyond._

_Bucky saw right away that Steve had gotten worse. His fever was obviously higher, and his cheeks and neck were mottled with dry patches of dark red. The skinny punk really needed to be asleep but he was fighting it tooth and nail, as usual. "Hey, Bucky," Steve said weakly. "Mom's going to be sore if she finds you in here."_

_"When has that ever stopped me, huh? How are you doing?"_

_Steve gave him a ghost of a smile. "Not too good."_

_Bucky forced himself to look cheerful, even though it was troubling to hear Steve admit that he wasn't feeling well. "You gotta quit hanging around here, that's for sure. Stuff is getting out of hand. Let me tell ya, that rotten Peter Lansson kid? He's been telling everybody that he's going to thump Donald Harvey."_

_"He'll kill Donald." Steve's eyes flared with indignation, even though he didn't have enough strength to lift himself off of the pillow. "I should go bust him right now."_

_"You should," said Bucky, holding back tears, wondering if Steve would make it until tomorrow, much less long enough to serve justice to Peter Lansson._

* * *

Bucky didn't understand why the sight of Tony slouched over a table in his laboratory would elicit a memory of Steve battling illness in a Brooklyn bedroom. Tony didn't look sick, though he looked like he hadn't shaved or combed his hair in a few days. He was just sitting there with his jaw propped on his hand, staring listlessly into a glass of amber liquid. A nearly empty bottle of the same substance stood beside his hand. He wondered if it was a real memory, and thought he would try to ask Steve about it later.

He was glad and greatly relieved that Steve was there. Once Steve had accepted that Bucky really did want to find out what was on Tony's mind, he had offered to stay nearby, out of earshot, but within calling distance. "Not going to hurt Tony," Bucky had promised.

"I'm not worried about you hurting Tony," Steve had said. "If you need me, just yell, or let JARVIS yell for you."

Bucky moved closer to the entryway and stood where Tony would be able to see him. Then he knocked on the acrylic room divider. Tony startled with a snort. When he saw who it was, he waved as acknowledgement. Sound was muffled through the divider, but he heard Tony say, "Let him in, JARVIS."

The work area was still chilly, but Bucky had borrowed one of Steve's sweatshirts and wore it over a long-sleeved T-shirt. The lighting had been reduced by about half. The place smelled of machine oil and dust and increasingly of alcohol the closer he moved to Tony. He also noticed the lingering scent of citrus and mint that JARVIS offered after he'd been sick, because it had also seemed to help Tony. Small tools and an articulated machine segment lay across the table. Tony had split his denim jeans from ankle to knee, and a maze of wires ran from each separate piece of the machine to contact points along his left leg. "Well, if it isn't Jason…fuck. Sorry. _Bucky_. Check this out." Tony flexed his calf, and the machine twisted and flopped. "I call it "The Really Deranged Caterpillar." Don't know what I'm going to use it for yet. Maybe nothing."

Bucky shrugged, not really seeing the point in something that had been made for no practical purpose. Then he remembered the green and red painting that he kept upstairs, next to his cherished book of space photographs. Art didn't seem to have a purpose, but he liked his painting anyway. Was Tony making his own kind of art?

Tony took a long drink from his glass, and motioned with his head that Bucky should sit down. Then Tony appraised him coolly for a moment and settled his eyes on the shiny surface of Bucky's left hand. "So. Does that thing hurt? I saw a lot of scarring before, right around the shoulder."

"Sometimes," Bucky admitted. He didn't have clear memories of when or how it had bothered him, but it had itched or burned when there hadn't been adequate time for maintenance.

"I want to apologize for what happened a couple of days ago," Tony mumbled. "I shouldn't have laid you out on the table and played engineer on your arm. I'm an asshole."

"Negative. You are a jackass."

Tony's eyebrows crept nearly into his hairline, and he laughed. "Guilty as charged." He took another drink. "Can I ask you something? Something serious, jackass to jackass? I know you can't always answer…crap. Sorry. I keep walking right into that stuff, don't I?"

"Is okay," Bucky said softly, raising his eyes. Tony looked pinched and gaunt. "Ask."

Tony sighed and ran his finger along the rim of his glass. The Really Deranged Caterpillar twitched. "All right, I think I'm finally drunk enough to just come right out with it." He leaned forward, his eyes black and intense. "You were tortured and frozen and had your brains burned out for _seventy years. _If anyone is entitled to flashbacks and shit, it's you. But you're dealing, you know? You've gone from a complete basket case to most of a decent human being." He sat back again, but his expression had lost none of its haunted intensity. "So, what I want to know is…how?"

He wanted to tell Tony that he didn't know how. He had only recently realized that he _was_ a human being, much less a decent one. Going from needing someone to give him an order to eat to taking fifteen minutes to make up his mind about whether or not he wanted mustard on his cereal wasn't that big of a step.

Decent human beings didn't need to make sure friends were out of harm's way before they could sleep, when they slept at all. Decent human beings didn't deserve to be hurt when they made stupid mistakes, like reaching for reflections in viewing panels or for making their friends cry. Decent human beings didn't worry every second about punishment descending for a wrong look, a wrong word, or even while sitting still and doing nothing. How could he possibly explain that to Tony?

He pushed himself out of the chair, lowered himself onto the floor and sat cross-legged under the table. Then he reached for Tony's hand and tugged until Tony disconnected the leads from his leg and had also moved to sit on the floor. Then Bucky said, "Am scared, Tony. Scared always." He waved his hands around to indicate the space under the table. "Want…_this_, all the time."

"You feel like hiding under a table all the time?"

"Affirmative." Bucky rapidly pattered an open hand against his chest to simulate a racing heartbeat. "_This, _always."

"Panic attacks?"

Bucky nodded. "All the time. Bad dreams, Tony. All the time."

"I have nightmares too." Tony looked at the floor. "Especially after New York. And after Afghanistan. They…um…yeah."

He'd read about the Invasion of New York. He knew that Tony had carried a nuclear missile into the wormhole, and had plummeted to Earth like a lifeless rock from space. Bucky also knew that the Ten Rings organization had kidnapped him and held him for months in Afghanistan, but he'd not known that they'd tortured Tony until now. "Hurt you?"

"Yeah."

Anger...no Bruce had called it "outrage"...boiled up inside him, surprising him deeply. It felt like what he thought of as anger when he saw it on the faces of other people, but without a specific target. "Understood."

Tony rubbed at his eyes. "Yeah, I guess if anyone here would understand, it would be you. So there's no magic bullet, huh?"

Bucky didn't understand what a magic bullet was, but he guessed it meant that there was no easy way to become a decent human being. "You are not an asshole, Tony."

The billionaire playboy industrialist laughed uproariously. Then Tony's shoulders began to shake and tears began to flow.

His first thought was to pull Tony into his arms, as Steve did to comfort him when he woke screaming at night, but he didn't know whether Tony would find that acceptable. But he decided that he'd rather accept the risk that Tony might drive a drill bit through his hand or put pliers to his fingers than do nothing. So Bucky took Tony's hand in his metal left one, thinking that a man who made machine art might like the prosthetic hand better than his real one, and sat quietly until Tony had cried himself out.


	22. Chapter 22

What nagged at Bucky for hours after he'd carried Tony to bed and asked JARVIS to look after him, was the distinct memory that he'd once had two arms. He'd always had only one flesh-and-blood right arm, and the more powerful, prosthetic left one, as far as he knew.

The forced memories of bone saws and dissecting clamps and jaw-cracking pain had been part of HYDRA's method of compelling its weapon to return for extraction immediately in case of conditioning failure. The imposed behavioral controls had fractured as he'd watchedSteve fall into the water from the fatally damaged helicarrier deck. The tattered remnant of James Buchanan Barnes had screamed one last time into the mindless silence that had been the Soldier, and had hauled Steve out of the Potomac River. Then he'd staggered away, horrifically injured and nearly dead himself, when the programmed directives to surrender had surfaced. He'd managed to hold out for just over a week before the relentless punishment broke him and he'd surrendered to Ron. But Bucky had no way to know whether those memories of having his arm removed by HYDRA had been real or implanted.

But now he clearly remembered climbing down a brick tenement wall to see his friend, and he'd had two arms, just like Steve, or James Buchanan Barnes, or anyone else had been born with. The thought was shocking and disturbing. His prosthetic arm had always seemed like a natural part of himself. Now it felt almost foreign, like it didn't belong.

Bucky gathered the tools he thought he might need, as if arming himself for combat. He pulled the blanket off the bed and threw it over his shoulder. The oversized book of space photographs, now dog-eared and shabby, was tucked carefully under his arm. He considered bringing the red and green painting or the picture Steve had drawn of him with his freshly cut hair, but they were simply too precious to him to risk damaging. He stuffed a few plastic bags into his pocket as an afterthought before he left the room. A small bowl of strawberries completed his armor and armament, and he went to the first place in the tower where he could remember having a true emotion other than fear.

The rooftop was empty, probably because the sky was gray and humid, and smelled like approaching rain. An encompassing glance informed him that there were no hidden personnel or devices. "JARVIS?" he called into the air, sounding uncertain, even to himself.

"Yes, Bucky?"

"I…I might need Steve. I don't want to worry him but…I don't know. Will you tell him?"

"I will alert Captain Rogers that you are not in immediate need and that I am monitoring you for signs of distress."

He drew a deep breath. "Thank you."

"May I ask what you are going to attempt?"

Bucky settled himself into a long wooden lounge chair under the cover of a decoratively grass-sided structure. "I'm going to try to remember my arm. No internet. Just by myself. It's important." He peeled off Steve's sweatshirt and the T-shirt and folded them neatly, putting them both aside. He set the bowl of strawberries within easy reach. Then he folded himself into the soft blanket, leaving his metal left arm and shoulder uncovered and extended along the armrest. The book went against his chest, cradled there with his right arm. Then he leaned his head against the backrest and really looked at his left arm.

It shined in the diffuse daylight, like the chrome on the cars that all the young men who liked cars had wanted. The upper arm had been molded into the shape of human muscles, closely resembling the contours of his real arm. Bucky flexed his fingers and watched the finely ridged plates move smoothly over one another. When he drummed them against the armrest, he could feel the vibrations, but he could not discern any fine details, such as the texture of the wood. He knew that he would not, but the knowledge seemed purely academic, and he wondered if he had ever been allowed to simply experiment. The sensation of stitched leather at his fingertips and throwing a baseball with his right hand popped into his mind. Everything he could clearly remember doing was with his right hand, except for holding Tony's hand in his left a few hours ago. Most of the memories involving his left hand were simply dark, hazy patches. Bucky thought backwards, sifting through what he could remember doing with the prosthetic.

Steve had pinned his left arm against the wall the night Bucky had elbowed him in the eye.

The day he'd been found at Ron's, he had punched Steve in the gut with it.

He'd washed it carefully in Ron's shower, so the agent wouldn't have to punish him if it smelled like burned oil and river mud.

He'd hung from his left arm, gripping a ruined piece of girder at the bottom of the helicarrier, his broken right arm hanging at his side.

His breathing had become ragged and fast. Bucky bit his lip and pulled the blanket around himself more securely. JARVIS asked, "Do you need Captain Rogers, Bucky?"

"Not yet." The memories were coming faster now. He embraced them because whatever else they were, they were obviously not false. "I'm safe," he said softly. "I'm in the tower, and I'm safe. No one will ever hurt me again. I can remember because I'm safe."

He'd swung a grapple into the flying man's wing and torn it off.

The car roof ripped open into a jagged sheet of metal, and he casually tossed it aside.

His right hand was gauntleted firmly in his left, effortlessly supporting the pistol, as he squeezed off ten perfectly placed shots.

The thumb gleamed as it toggled the detonator. The explosion reflected harsh yellows and golds in surface of his arm as the distant blast wave passed over him and blew back his hair.

He fired ten more rounds into someone's skull. The mist of blood coalesced into a slick across his arm, his uniform, his mask.

The smoke…

The rifle…

The knife…

Bucky was screaming, huddled against the thatched bamboo wall. He tried to pull the metal arm away from his body, twisting it frantically with his right hand, and when that failed, he clawed into the scars at his shoulder. "Help me, JARVIS, I need Steve, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: I'm not sure I like this chapter, but I've read it all weekend and don't know what the problem is. It says what I want it to say, but...**

* * *

He was throwing up again.

A hand was on his back, rubbing in circles.

Another heave.

Something was damp and cool on his face.

Again. More bile. Dizziness. Seeing spots.

Being urged to take some water and spit it out. Twice. Three times.

Being helped to lie down.

It was raining. Drops thrummed on the thatched roof and rustled through the grass walls. Bucky could feel the wooden lounge chair supporting his back, and the blanket spread over him, warming his chest and legs. Smaller cloths had been packed around his bleeding shoulder. Steve sat beside him on another chair, studying him with concern as he wrung out a white bar cloth. He felt weak and washed out and didn't think he could speak right away. Steve didn't press him. After a few minutes, Bucky said, "I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"I was stupid." Steve's mouth pressed into a hard line, and Bucky looked away. "I tried to remember. Too fast, too much. Couldn't control. Stupid."

Steve mopped Bucky's brow with the cloth. "You're not stupid. Overeager, maybe, but not stupid."

"Stupid," he repeated. "Shouldn't have tried. Killed lots of people, Steve. Hurt lots of people." He gulped, feeling the nausea rising, and stopped talking until his stomach began to settle. "I'm sorry."

"Are you still sick?"

Bucky shook his head slowly. Steve folded the cloth and placed it across his forehead. "You are not stupid, James Barnes."

"I'm not James…"

"Let me finish and then you can say whatever you want." Bucky fell silent. Steve took his right hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then he also took Bucky's metal left hand. "You're going to tell me you're not James Barnes. Well, I say you are. What other fool would go out to fight HYDRA with nothing more than a blanket and a bowl of strawberries, huh?"

"Jerk. I'm a jerk."

"Yeah, you're the biggest jerk I know," said Steve, but he was smiling. "Every time you do something like this, you are _so much_ James Barnes, and you don't even know it. You are trying to carry this incredible burden alone, up the cliffs and over the rocks, because you want to spare everyone else the hardship. You always tried to hide how upset you were whenever I got beat up or got sick. That's how you were…how you still are. Carrying everything alone. Turning it all inward. But you _can't_ carry this one alone."

"Not all right to make worry."

"Buck, I worry. That's just what I do. Captain Worrywart. So stop thinking about protecting me and let me help you. Tell me when you want to try something like this, or when you remember things that make you feel bad, instead of waiting until it's over and you're so upset. I'm not doing anything so important that I won't drop it for you, buddy. Or look at it this way. You'll make me feel better if you do."

If remembering involved guns and knives and blood and fire, he wasn't sure he wanted to remember anything else. There was the sense that these flashes of memory were just the exposed, jagged tip of a whole mountain range. Bucky thought that if they pushed him into the chair again, just one more time, and burned all of that away, that he might go willingly. But then, he'd forgotten strawberries once before. He didn't want to lose that again. And if he lost Steve again, permanently this time…

He had cried out for Steve in the darkness of blindfolds and cells. He'd cried for Steve in silence when he had learned that screaming was wrong. He'd cried for Steve when he no longer remembered who Steve was. Bucky wished that he could just die instead of disappointing Steve with his memories of the Soldier. But he swallowed hard and flung himself into his fear, crying in his heart that Steve would not abandon him when he heard the truth.

The prosthetic hand glistened, and he nodded toward it angrily. "This thing. Not all right."

"Why not?"

"Put on me." He felt tears start to well, and dashed them away with his other hand. "Put on me to kill people. Weapon." He jabbed his thumb into his chest. "Bad. Had to be bad man for this." A decent human being would have died before allowing himself to be fitted with a prosthetic arm that had no purpose other than to hurt people. A decent human being would never have been selected to be a weapon in the first place. "James Buchanan Barnes is dead, Steve, and…I am left. Bad."

"Bad?" Steve repeated, looking so hurt that Bucky just wanted to crawl away. He burned with shame as Steve looked down at the prosthetic. His voice was soft. "Tell me what you remember about what HYRDA did to you."

He struggled to keep from censoring himself because Steve had given him a direct order, and said the words as they surfaced in his mind. "Punishment. Training. Making too much noise. Retraining. Told I am stupid. Electricity. Told I did wrong. Straps. Needles. Crying."

"Would HYDRA have had to do all that to make a really bad man do what they wanted?"

He thought about Tony. Tony had been hurt until he had agreed to build a missile for the Ten Rings. But Tony was a good man, and he'd built himself an armored suit instead. But what if they'd had Tony for a year instead of for a few months? Five years? Seventy years? It may or not have been his fault. He still wasn't clear on that. The things he remembered doing were so bad… But it didn't really matter whether he was a bad man or a good one. The programming was there, and was just as lethal as his metal arm. "Still in here," Bucky said, pointing at his head. "In here. Could hurt you, any of you. Maybe while sleeping. Or get mad. No control."

"That hasn't been much of a problem so far."

"Brains bad," Bucky said sorrowfully.

Steve sat back and seemed to be thinking hard for a moment. "If you knew someone who had been shot through his leg, would you expect him to be running on it right away?"

"Affirmative."

"Okay, that was a bad example. I guess I've done that too." Steve thought again. "If you knew a man who had both his legs blown completely off, would you be angry at him for not being able to walk normally?"

Bucky considered that. HYDRA would have expected him to attempt to complete his mission while he still lived, even without his legs. But even they would not have punished him for not being able to walk normally. "Not angry for that."

"Is that man bad for not being able to walk?"

"Negative."

"HYRDA took your memories, Bucky. They forced you to do those things, made you kill those people for them. They may even have made you want to do it for them, if it meant the pain would stop. But you fought it the whole time, right up until the second you didn't kill me on the Insight carrier. That makes _you_ brave and amazing and strong, not a bad man."

He was a good man? Maybe Bucky was…a decent human being? "Bruce said I was injured," he said at last. "I didn't understand."

"Do you now?"

"Think so. Maybe brains not bad. Brains…injured."

Steve sat back in his chair. "Good. Now, you're going to tell me when you want to try to remember something so I can help you fill in the missing pieces, right?"

Bucky nodded, starting to feel strangely better. "Affirm...Right."

"And if things don't make sense, or you don't feel well, or anything at all, you're not going to suffer alone, right?"

"Right."

Steve didn't smile, but the corners of his eyes lifted. "And you're going to tell me the next time you're hungry before you go eating all Clint's blueberries and wrecking the peanut butter supply?"

Bucky felt his lips wreath into a little smile. "Wrong."

"Yeah, tell me now you're not James Barnes." Steve's grin lit everything up in place of the sun. "Let's see about getting your shoulder fixed up."


	24. Chapter 24

Bucky plopped heavily onto the couch and threw his feet up onto the coffee table. He balanced a big bowl of popcorn shaken in dry mustard on his lap and set a tall glass of chocolate milk onto the end table, mindful as always that there was a coaster under the glass. "Hey, JARVIS, put on "Cosmos" for me, please?"

The television screen illuminated, already on the proper channel. "Cosmos" will not begin for another six minutes and fifty-eight seconds. Will you be viewing alone again this evening?"

"Yup," he said, flipping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. Science wasn't Steve's thing, and the show was much too basic for Bruce to sincerely enjoy. Clint and Natasha were always throwing out bad impressions of Neil deGrasse Tyson, which were sometimes funny, but mostly just irritating. Tony was on a "Game of Thrones" binge, and claimed that he didn't want to alter the "purity" of his experience, or some nonsense. But Bucky had a lot of knowledge to catch up on, and in some ways he preferred to just embrace his inner nerd by himself. He blamed Bruce, and his first glimpse of Saturn through the telescope for that. "I can't believe there's so much I didn't know," he said. "I doubt I would have cared about this stuff before, but now…well, I don't know why, but I can't get enough."

"I suspect that learning was always something you valued."

"Nah. Steve was the intellectual. I had all the charm and good looks."

"Obviously."

His ears picked up a sharp "thwip," and he reacted instantly, diving for cover behind the tall arm of the couch. One of Tony's "splatballs" was stuck to his collar and was seeping luminescent sludge in a thread over his shoulder. If he hadn't moved so quickly, the ball would likely have caught him between the eyes. Bucky's cell phone rang with the cackling ringtone that told him right away who it was. He answered with a growl. "Really, Barton? Now?"

"Now, Grasshopper."

"My show's coming on!"

"Here, I'll help. Snape killed Dumbledore."

Bucky laughed, letting his startled surprise drain away. No one else in the tower really understood the silly search-and-destroy game that had evolved between Clint and Bucky, but then maybe only snipers could appreciate it anyway. "All right. Ring the bell, school's in," he said, giving the code that signaled the official start of the round. Clint chuckled, and the call dropped.

Bucky stayed crouched behind the makeshift cover, and extended his senses. Clint was likely on the move to a prepared nest with a defensible perimeter. He couldn't hear any movement, but he didn't expect to unless Clint made an uncharacteristic mistake. His eyes roamed the room in the direction of where the splatball had come. Clint was perfectly capable of ricocheting a shot, but he hadn't heard anything but the initial report. But his trained eyes caught a tiny detail. One of the decorative switch plates had a screw missing. _Aha,_ he thought with a smile. _You were in the wall. You shot me through that hole. _

He reached into his pocket and carefully assembled his launcher. Tony had created the degradable splatballs and launchers after spitballs and modified drinking straws had begun to appear randomly around the tower. Bucky thought that he might have a surprise for Clint, though. Tony had owed him a favor, and had made some substantial muzzle velocity and range improvements to his launcher. Dirty pool for most games, but snipers always played to win.

Bucky checked his watch. If he worked fast and surpassed his personal best time in hunting Clint down, he would be able to get back before the show started. He took a few precious seconds to think about where Clint could have moved from his given initial point. He hadn't heard the elevator, and no doors had opened. With silent care, Bucky removed a vent from the lower part of the wall, and contorted himself through the small opening. The ventilation space was cleaned regularly, but there was always some thin dust right around the intake. There were very faint disturbed prints where Clint's elbow had brushed the sheathing. _Gotcha._

Oh yeah, this was going to be a personal best.

JARVIS monitored Bucky as he slid through the ventilation shafts in stealthy pursuit. The computer had never completely ceased observing him since the process had been initiated almost a year ago, but had gradually lowered the priority as the need had lessened. Bucky's heart rate and breathing were slightly elevated, but no more than would be expected for a young human male who was having fun. He still occasionally had nightmares, and there were times when he needed to just lie quietly on his bed and clutch his book to his chest. And even though JARVIS doubted he still needed it, Bucky always slept with the lights dimmed to one quarter. But there were also times like this, when Bucky could enjoy chasing Clint through the walls of Stark Tower, or sit with Steve and try to remember good things.

As far as it was given for an Artificial Intelligence to feel pride at all, JARVIS was_ proud_ of Bucky.

* * *

**Last chapter :) Thanks for sticking with it this far. I don't think I'll do another of these anytime soon, unless I come up with a really compelling idea. Or if I come up with another bit that fits with what I've already done here, I might tack it on. But this is the end of "Simple Coversation."**

**Oh, and I swore I wouldn't use this phrase at any point during my story, so I'll indulge myself now. "Kicked puppy, kicked puppy, kicked puppy" *sob***


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